


On A Last Chance

by SpaceCaseWriter13



Series: Find Your Way Home [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Depression, Disordered Eating, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Loss, M/M, Multi, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-08
Updated: 2019-05-04
Packaged: 2019-10-24 13:56:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 54,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17705519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpaceCaseWriter13/pseuds/SpaceCaseWriter13
Summary: Weeks after escaping Hydra's thrall, the former Winter Soldier finds himself grievously ill and on the run. Heading north after the collapse of S.H.I.E.L.D. he stumbles onto an equine therapy ranch for veterans run by Air Force widow Magdalene "Maggie" Ramirez. During his recovery, he is taken into the fold by Ramirez and her group of misfit volunteers on "Last Chance Ranch," leaving him to wonder, not just who the hell is Bucky, but what does it actually mean to be Bucky Barnes?





	1. Bad Beginnings

**Author's Note:**

> The author would like to note that this is just fanfic and is not in any way financially profiting from this particular fic.

They were on his scent. _Hydra._ They wanted him back. They wanted their weapon back, their Winter Soldier. He sucked in the cool air, glancing around him, eyes scanning the tree line for movement. _I have to keep moving. I have to stay off the grid. They’re waiting for me to show up in one of the cities. They’re waiting for me to make a mistake._

He traipsed along the roadside, his legs ached, head throbbed, and his whole body covered in goosebumps, even as sweat dripped from his brow. He had to pause as the ground in front of him warped and spun. He knelt, squeezing his eyes shut, he pulled his right glove off and dug his hand into the soft earth and tried to regulate his breathing. _Assess damage. Evaluate options._ His heart pounded his ears nearly obscuring the sounds around him. He’d headed north. He’d headed away from densely populated areas. Now he was in the middle of New York nowhere, and the sounds of the forest crept in around him.

The sun was getting ready to set, and he could already feel the evening mists setting in. He grit his teeth as another wave of pain accompanied by nausea washed over him. _Find cover, repair damage, resupply, regroup, keep moving._ That’s what his training dictated he needed to do. That’s what would keep him alive right now. He rose shakily to his feet, blinking the spots from his vision. The sun was going down fast. Turning away from the road, he surveyed the horizon. An abandoned barn peaked out over the tree line, about two miles from the road. It would provide cover and a place to evaluate his physical condition. His head continued to spin and he squeezed his eyes shut. He could hear them, their voices, their screams. He could see their faces. His breath caught in his chest, making him wheeze. 

Opening his eyes, he took one final look around before he turned to the brush and trees, and started walking. Ignoring the sheering pain shooting from his shoulders arm and into his back he trudged through the woods. The sun sunk below the horizon, and the dark and damp settled in, seeping through his light jacket and into his bones. Mist rolled in, clinging to his hair, and skin. Soon the mist turned to rain, as his breath condensed in the air in front of him. He blinked heavily to keep his vision from blurring. _Bucky?_ That voice hit him so hard, he stopped and looked around. _Your name is James Buchanan Barnes._ He heard it again. That face, _his_ face swam in front of his eyes. “You’re not here.” He said out loud, willing the voice away, ignoring how his voice shook. It wasn’t the worst thing he could be hearing. He knew that. But he couldn’t afford to lose his grip on reality, not right now, not when he was exposed and at the mercy of both Hydra and the elements. 

He sucked in the damp air, coughing as it stung his lungs. His foot caught on a root, and he fell to the ground. Clawing at the damp, peaty earth, thick with decaying leaves, and mud he staggered to his feet, every movement a labor. He continued through the woods, breathing heavy, head pounding, eyes blurring in and out of focus.Coming to a white fence, he clambered over it and went to the barn. Glancing around his gaze paused momentarily on the old decaying farmhouse before he slipped inside. He stopped. There were horses in the barn. It wasn’t abandoned. Pain shot from his left shoulder, through his body, and into his spine. The whole barn spun, and he had to lean against the wall to keep from toppling over. _Just a few hours of sleep, and he’d be out of here before the owner showed up._ He staggered through the barn, the horses eyeing him nervously.

Coming to an empty stall at the far end, he collapsed on the straw covered floor, the barn ceiling spinning in an out of focus. He could hear them, he could hear of all them. The screaming and pleading of the soldier’s victims and the sound of gunfire mixed with the sounds of his own screams and the buzz and snap of electrodes. He squeezed his eyes shut, tears streaming down his face, his breathing ragged. _Make it stop. Please make it stop._ He bit down on a wad of his jacket trying to smother the urge to scream, fighting his body and the pain, waiting for the release the darkness would bring.

The Darkness took him, but then all too soon the world came swimming back into focus, and he jerked awake.

“Good morning ladies and gentlemen.” A woman’s voice proclaimed cheerfully, punctuating the silence before the barn doors slid open with a loud bang. 

His eyes snapped open, temporarily blinded by the bright florescent lights overhead, he blinked, struggling to his feet. His whole body was tense as he looked for an escape route, heart pounding, eyes searching frantically for a way out that wouldn’t involve him killing this person. The sound of boots on hard wood floors paused outside the stall, “Hello?” The unidentified woman called. His right hand went to the knife in his pocket, to find it wasn’t there. Instead, both hands were clinched. “Hello?” She called again; there were a few hesitant steps. _Run. Run you idiot._ He would’ve screamed. _Run while you can still get away._ She came into view outside the open stall door, her eyes scanning him only momentarily before she took a big step back and away. “Whoa. Hi there big guy, I’m not here to hurt you.” She said raising her hands up in front of her, surveying him with dark eyes. 

What surprised him was that it wasn’t fear that immediately crossed her expression, but concern. “Who are you?” He demanded, voice low and hoarse from disuse. He scanned her, evaluating for possible threats. She was: short, muscular, rigid posture, with a calculating expression. _Possible Soldier._ He decided. However, perhaps most importantly, she appeared to be unarmed. _Threat level: moderate to minimal; ally: unknown; final evaluation: not a target, take no further action._ His training told him, his head pounded.

“I have to ask for your safety and mine are you armed or currently on drugs of any kind?” The woman asked carefully.

_Like it would matter? You don’t know who you’re dealing with, woman._ However she wasn’t scared, she was asking a matter of factly, taking stock of him and his threat level the same way he had done with her. “No.” He shook his head before a sheering pain nearly sent him to his knees. Barely stifling a scream, he staggered forward, catching himself on the side of the stall before he could tumble all the way to the floor. He blinked, as the barn floor twisted and warped.

The woman took a halting step toward him but stopped at the sound of gravel crunching under tires outside. He looked up at the woman, gauging her response. She glanced between the door and him. “Stay here,” She said in gently but firm voice before walking from the barn. “Suzanne!” The woman greeted the driver in a cheerful chirp.

“Ramirez!” Suzanne replied before the rest of their conversation was obscured by distance.

There was another stab of pain, and he collapsed in the hay. He lay there a moment breathing ragged, chest heaving, eyes clinched shut as he waited for the pain to pass. He curled up, a small as possible and gripped his skull with his right hand covering most of his face and head with his hand and arm. The left hand and arm lay limp. He tried to focus, tried to focus on anything that might take his mind off the pain. He focused on the voices outside the barn. The two women were talking, about a horse Suzanne had rescued, and that the woman, whom Suzanne had called Ramirez, was apparently rehabilitating. Their tone was relaxed. Had the woman alerted Suzanne to his presence? It didn’t appear so. At the moment they didn’t pose a threat to him. He turned to his surroundings trying to evaluate where he was and what he could do if he needed to make a quick exit. _Location: Barn; Occupants: 9 Horses; Exits: Two doors and two loft windows, one door was shut possibly locked, the other led to the pasture outside. Location: defensible; personnel: civilians. No immediate threat. Stand down._

He focused then on his breathing. The pain wasn’t flaring anymore, and had receded momentarily to a more manageable level. His head was still spinning but he didn’t feel like he was going to vomit. However, there was a persistent and nagging itching sensation at the seam between the metal plate and his skin. He wanted to scratch, he wanted to scratch and scratch until the thing was out. His brain was telling him to run. _They’re going to find me, they always find me. I have to keep moving, I have to go further north. I can’t let them get me again, I can’t let them make me kill people any more. I can’t let them make me forget._ He’d managed to shake his tail after he’d made it into New York City, but who knew how far behind him they were. In New York City there had been too many people, it was too crowded, too noisy. Too much static when his mind was already fuzzy. He couldn’t risk accidentally hurting someone, or at the rate, he was going, risk becoming incapacitated in the street for a stranger to find. _No so instead you stumble into a stranger’s barn and pass out there._ There was no helping that now. His location was secure for the moment, and the woman, Ramirez, hadn’t seemed in hurry to let anyone know that he was there. _Is she hydra?_ The thought persisted. If she was, she certainly didn’t fit the model of Aryan perfection that they normally employed. She looked like a Latino type, maybe Mexican or Mexican-American. He couldn’t be completely sure, but she wasn’t white. 

The truck drove away, and he started to sit up, his muscles screaming, his head throbbing with every movement, so he collapsed back into the straw. He squeezed his eyes shut and trained his ears listening for footsteps. She was calling the cops; there was no other explanation. He tried to sit up. _I have to keep moving; I can’t stay here._ His stomach rolled, how long had it been since he’d eaten? A day? Maybe two? It didn’t matter, whatever he ate he’d just throw it back up again. He managed a sitting position, his head screaming, pain shooting up his neck and shoulders and into his spine. He was struggling into a standing position when he heard the footsteps again. The footsteps faltered a moment, and the woman appeared at the stall door.

“Hey.” She began slowly. “I’ve brought you some water. When was the last time you had something to eat?” 

He kept his eyes directed on the barn floor, trying to will it to stop spinning. “I don’t know.” He muttered, shaking his head slightly. The words came out at no more than a rasp. 

The woman, Ramirez, nodded, “I know I already asked you this, but are you sure you’re not on anything?”

He squeezed his eyes shut, doing his best to think through the ringing in his ears and the pounding in his head. Hydra had pumped him full of stuff, he just didn’t know what, and he wasn’t in any position to speculate at the moment. “I...I don’t...know,” He managed.

“Okay.” The woman answered. “I’m going to grab some broth for you. Try and drink some water if you can.” She said slowly entered the stall and set the water bottle down only a few feet from him.. “I wouldn’t try moving too much.” She cautiously backed from the stall. 

He watched her disappear from his line of sight and then listened as her footfalls faded from ear shot. He glanced down at the bottle of water she’d placed beside him. It was plastic, disposable, with the original seal intact. He staggered the few steps toward it, and sunk down on his knees beside the water bottle. He grabbed it and inspected it carefully before opening the bottle and raising it to his chapped lips.

His mouth and throat were dry even as his stomach rolled, making the back of his throat string. He took a few small sips, just barely wetting the inside of his mouth. He paused as the lukewarm fluid settled in his stomach before he took a few more sips, expending nearly every ounce of self-control not to chug the water down. He knew what would happen if he did.

_The longer you stay here the closer Hydra gets to your location._ His whole body throbbed. He could barely stand, never mind continue his trajectory northward in his present condition. He took another few sips of water, trying to ignore how his hand was shaking. He couldn’t move very fast or very far, he’d have to shelter in place. He paused at the sound of approaching footsteps. The woman would complicate things, but at the moment what choice did he have?

“Hey.” She announced her presence, and he looked up at her. She was holding a green metal thermos. “It’s the broth from green chili stew. It's really hot at the moment. I would give it some time to cool down.” She set the thermos down at the stall doorway. “I’m going to be in and out of the barn today, but it’s only me so no one will bother you in here.” She explained.

He nodded but said nothing. The woman nodded in reply, again giving him a once over, her expression gave nothing away. “Stall door open or closed?” She asked.

“Open.”

“Sounds good.” She nodded again. “Let me know if and or when you want some more broth or when your stomach can handle solids.”

She walked away without waiting for a response and turned on the radio. Music in Spanish seeped from the speakers not quite loud enough to drown out her footsteps or voice but enough to fill the otherwise silence of the barn. He crawled forward, peering out into the aisle found the woman leading the horses outside two by two. Grabbing the thermos, he returned to the back corner where the water and his backpack was located. She walked in and out a few times before she started cleaning the stalls. He watched the doorway, propped up in the furthest corner, sipping water and listening to the gurgle of his stomach. Could he trust her? Well. He didn’t exactly have a choice at the moment now did he? He couldn’t help but wonder about her motivations and reasoning behind this apparent altruism. _‘It’s only me’_ She’d said, or had she meant just me? He didn’t know. 

He unscrewed the lid of the thermos and sniffed it cautiously before taking a small sip, a complicated array of flavors assaulted his tastebuds, it was more than just the water, stock, and salt he’d expected. _Green Chili stew_ is what the woman had said. He took another sip, not surprised this time by the array of flavors he focused on what his body was doing. He was still nauseous, and everything was still spinning, but his stomach wasn’t constricting or twisting or any of the other tell tale signs that he was going to throw up. He took another drink of water and then another sip of broth gauging how his stomach was handling the intake of fluid. He finished the water and broth at about the same time. While his stomach was rolling, he didn’t feel like he was going to throw it up. Instead, much to his surprise, he didn’t feel hungry, he felt full for probably the first time in a long time. He shuffled over to the stall door and placed both the water bottle and thermos just outside the door, before crawling back to his corner. Back to the wall, he settled down in the straw facing the doorway. He blinked as his eyelids grew heavy, his whole body on high alert even as his fought against the oncoming sleep. He had to remain vigilant even in his sleep. He also didn’t know what sleep would bring. Nightmares and horrors, voices and visions of the atrocities he’d taken part in and been victim to. 

Was all of this just another one of Hydra’s tricks? Would he wake up back inside one of their compounds strapped to a chair? Was all of this just in his head? No, everything hurt too much, even for Hydra. If they were implanting something in his brain to pacify him, they were doing a piss poor job.

He drifted in and out of consciousness clinging to the sounds of the barn and the gentle hum of the music playing in the background. He moved only a few times to retrieve water and broth the woman had supplied before crawling back to his spot. Time passed. It must have he just wasn’t entirely sure how much. He could identify the woman’s footsteps coming in and out of the barn. Other voices were far off in the distance, and he couldn’t quite make them out, though they never approached the barn — the woman’s voice cut in and out of the general static. Laughing or chatting loudly, nothing urgent just idle chatter mostly.  He eventually found himself laying on his back starring up at the barn ceiling. It wasn’t spinning quite so much, and the pounding in his skull had eased.

Every muscle in his body still ached, but not so bad as before, though he knew if he moved too much too suddenly the left shoulder would flare up again. He pulled off his right glove with his teeth and brought his right hand to his shoulder. He could feel the seam of metal and flesh and feel the grinding of metal on metal from the arm in his spine. He squeezed his eyes shut. He could hear them screaming again, all of them at once. He took several deep breaths trying to stymie the pounding behind his eyes. 

His eyes shot open at the sound of crunching gravel coming up the drive near the barn. “Hey, Jack.” The woman’s voice rang out at the truck door opened and the slammed shut. Her voice was audibly tense.

He frowned, pushing himself up into a sitting position, training his ears on the conversation just outside. 

“Mrs. Underdalh.” A man’s voice answered.

“You know I never took my husband’s name Roberts, do you have my month’s supply of hay?” The woman replied flatly. 

“Calm down there Ramirez,” Roberts laughed. “I got your hay.”

Something about that man’s voice put him on edge. It obviously put the woman on edge too. He slowly pulled himself into a standing position, listening to the muffled exchanges and shifting noises. Then their voices shifted back out to where the man had gotten out of his vehicle, and he could make out what was being said. 

“You know I would take this place off your hands. You don’t need all this responsibility and worry little lady, especially when you’re still so young.”The man she’d identified as Roberts commented the condescension thick in his tone.

He limped from the stall, hand grabbing the stall's posts to steady himself. 

“I’ve told you before, Roberts. I’m not selling.”So this was a conversation they’d had before. No wonder the woman, Ramirez, was irritated.

“You would if you knew what’s good for you.”Again the condescension was thick in Robert’s voice.

“I don’t have time to talk about my business. You know the way out.” He heard her boots crunch in the gravel as she turned on her heels, but she was stopped.

“I don’t give a shit what you have the time for.” Roberts snarled.

“Let go of me, Jack.” It wasn’t fear in her voice. It was fury. 

He moved faster, his feet driven by an unknown force, even as he internally screamed. _Keep a low profile, don’t draw any attention to yourself._

“Or what?” 

“Or I’ll break your fucking hand before I break your face.” The woman practically growled. 

“Oh you think you’re being funny,” He spat, “Fucking wet—” The man identified as Jack Roberts stopped when he saw him step into the barn doorway.

“Is there a problem here?” It was the only thing he could think of to say, his voice low, a near growl. He surveyed the scene in front of him. The man Ramirez had called Jack Roberts had a hold of her arm; his knuckles white from how tight he was gripping her elbow. He was a short, white man in his fifties, wearing cowboy boots and a cowboy hat, he was however unarmed. _Threat level: minimal._ He decided, even if the man was an asshole. 

Roberts, doing an evaluation of his own, immediately released the woman’s arm as a wave of fear passed over his expression.“No. No problem.” He backed away, not brave enough to turn his back on him, Roberts all but ran to his truck. Both he and Ramirez watched as Roberts clambered inside, fumbled with the keys, and turned over the engine before he hauled ass down the gravel road.

They watched Jack Roberts disappear down the drive before the woman turned to him, facing him squarely. Her chest heaved, her hands slowly releasing from fists as she surveyed him with her dark eyes. Was she trying to decide if he was a threat? Had she recognized him? Whatever her evaluation she reached her conclusion, she nodded only once before walking around the side of the barn and out if his line of sight.

He turned, cringing as he did, the pain making dark spots dance before his eyes. He walked, practically staggering back to the stall, closed the door, and collapsed in the straw. Curling up in the furthest back corner, facing the door, he listened, wondering if she was going to come back. From the sound of music playing in the distance, he figured not. 

The stall door blurred in and out of focused, as he struggled to keep his vision from spinning. He squeezed his eyes shut, exhaling a shaky breath. He shouldn’t have done that. He shouldn’t have intervened. _It wasn’t any of my business._ He reasoned to himself. It had also compromised his location and possibly alerted Hydra to where he was hiding out. It wasn’t safe. _I should keep moving._ It was one thing to have the woman know he was here. She was harmless and completely alone, he’d have at least a day’s head start if he needed to- _NO!_ He stopped himself from even thinking it. _No. Absolutely not. I won’t. Not a civilian._

He shivered, chills raising goosebumps on his sweat-beaded skin. He fought to think through the shooting pain at his temples. _Why stop Roberts? Why interfere? He wouldn’t have actually hurt her, would he?_ He didn’t know. What he did know was that his actions had defied Hydra programming, self-preservation, and logic. This wasn’t about logic though, there was something entirely irrational about the whole situation. He could see the look of anger in her eyes, her jaw set in determination, prepared to take whatever was headed her way. The expression was familiar, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d seen that expression somewhere before. 

_Steven Rogers._ He couldn’t help but think of the blonde man from the hellicarrier standing resolutely before him, unarmed, and unwilling to defend himself. Even still that wasn’t the same expression that had been on the woman’s face. No. That was an expression Bucky Barnes had seen a thousand times over on the face of his 95 pound asthmatic friend, _Steve._ On the Hellicarrier Steve Rogers had called him Bucky, James Buchanan Barnes. God how he wanted it to be true. He wanted it to be true with ever fiber of his being, wanted to have a name, an identity, a past beyond the torture and pain and violence of the last seventy years. The memories of the blood and the pain and the torture and the mutilation and the murder told a different story. It said _‘No. You are not worthy of him. You not even worthy of being human. End it all. end it all now and you’ll spare the world and spare Him so much pain._ ’ 

He wanted to hold on to the hope that maybe he was Bucky Barnes, that maybe he was worthy of the human race. Was that why he’d intervened? He knew on an intellectual level it was the right thing to do. He knew right and wrong, but the will and ability to act upon it was another thing. Just because it was the right thing to do hadn’t made him act upon it. There were a thousand reasons _not_ to. Maybe he’d done it for her, although he had no idea why he’d do something so stupid.

Another chill went up his spine and made his whole body shake. The question would have to wait for another day. He couldn’t parse through it right now. Right now he needed to focus on regaining his strength, and shaking whatever the hell it was Hydra had pumped into him. 


	2. Canned Speeches and Recollections

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The author would like to note that this is just fanfic and is not in any way financially profiting from this particular fic. The characters belonging to Marvel belong to Marvel. However, all characters created by me belong to me. Yanno how it is.

He awoke to nature’s call, which was an unexpected surprise considering he’d been mostly sweating and vomiting. Standing up he staggered from the barn, looking for the best place to relieve himself. He was so distracted he nearly stumbled into Ramirez who wore an unmistakable expression of surprise. “You’re up!” 

“Bathroom?” He somehow managed despite the spinning, pounding, and the overly full bladder.

“There’s the outbuilding.” She pointed past him to a decent sized building. “There’s a bathroom and shower, toiletries, and spare clothes if you’d like.” She explained quickly.

“Thanks.” He mumbled, moving past her and up the hill toward the building. Hesitating in the doorway, he flipped on the lights and did a quick survey to make sure the building was abandoned. Entering the building, he locked the door behind him before going to one of the bathroom stalls. 

Once his bladder was sufficiently emptied, he went to the sink to wash his hands...hand. He glanced around, double checking that the door was locked before pulling of the left glove. Fumbling with the knob of the water faucet he put both hands under the tap, allowing the water to flow over them. Washing his hands, he glanced up into the bathroom mirror, and although he wanted to look away, he found himself practically mesmerized by what he saw there.

The soldier hadn’t been allowed mirrors. He’d certainly caught his reflection in windows and the various reflective materials in his everyday existence, but it had always been in bits and pieces blurred and warped and distorted, never in its entirety and never in such clarity. The face he saw there wasn’t his face, it was grave and shallow and sunken. The eyes were hollow and dull. 

_Your name is James Buchanan Barnes_

He’d been to the museum, seen the man that Steven Rogers claimed he was. That man was vibrant and full of life. Even in death, Bucky Barnes was more alive than he was than the soldier ever could be.

He looked down, both hands gripping the edge of the metal sink. 

_Bucky!...End of the line pal...Taking all the stupid with you...I’m following him...yanno it’s kinda growin’ on me..._

Images flashed in front of his eyes, memories, his memories? They weren’t any more than flashes, bits, and pieces, almost incoherent noise in the maelstrom raging in his head. He turned off the water and combed both hands through his hair. He was achy, everything hurt, but for the first time in the past week and a half, it was almost bearable. He stood up straight and glanced around. The woman, Ramirez, had mentioned a shower, and now that he wasn’t frantically searching for a bathroom he could look around and take in his surroundings a bit. 

It was a sturdy structure, well insulated and set on a concrete slab. It had two rows of flickering fluorescent lights, a set of six rusty lockers set along the right side of the wall. Each locker was labeled: foodstuffs, towels, toiletries, socks and underwear, blankets and gloves. Then there were a number of clear plastic bins on the floor beside the lockers each likewise labeled: Pants, T-Shirts, and Hoodies. _She’s done this before._ He thought. 

Beyond the lockers were a series of hooks. To the right was a set of three sinks and mirrors, each with their light above them, none of which appeared to work. There was a slightly off center was a wooden bench bolted to the concrete floor. Beyond the bench and sinks was a set of three stalls and a curved shower curtain rod in the back corner. On the wall near the back was a small window with faux stain glass sticker on the glass. 

Grabbing what he needed from the lockers, and double checking that the door and window were secure, he peeled off his clothes and walked into the shower. Pulling the curtain around him, he turned on the water. It came out cold, and he flinched as the water stung his skin, but he scrubbed his body with the bar of soap only vaguely aware as the water temperature changed from frigid to nearly scalding. It took a moment before he realized that it hurt, and adjusted the knob accordingly. 

It all felt simultaneously foreign and familiar, this simple act of bathing. He tilted his head up and allowed the water to flow over him. Through his hair and down his shoulders and back, allowing the warmth to soak into his twisted and knotted muscles and maybe ease the pressure in his spine. He hurt, every movement hurt but his head didn’t feel quite so fuzzy. He didn’t have to fight moment by moment through a fog for each thought.

The water had started to run cold by the time he finally decided to get out of the shower. Drying and dressing he pulled on his gloves and started into the yard where he got a good look at his surroundings for the first time.

There was the barn. To the right of the barn was a tool shed a woodshed and an old smokehouse, there was a massive windmill standing amongst rusted derelict farm equipment beside the gravel road that led from the barn to the main road. To the left was a small round enclosure, and then even further than that was the white fence that made up the pasture with ill-fitting gates, chipping paint, and rotted rails. Walking some distance from the outbuilding, he turned around. Past the outbuilding about another fifty yards was a set narrow stone steps which led up to a large colonial style house in the same disrepair like the rest of the property. The place had basically gone to rot. Why was it that this woman wanted to hold onto it? She was all alone or so she had said. Roberts, Roberts had called her Mrs. Underdahl. Her husband’s name? She hadn’t said ex-husband, so one could assume that he either was dead or he was just not in the picture. 

“Hey!” He turned to see the woman approaching him from the house.

“Hi.” He nodded. 

“How are you feeling?”

“Awake.” It was the only honest answer he could give.

“Not sure if your stomach is ready for anything too heavy, but I brought you something to eat,” She extended the green Thermos and a gallon sized plastic bag to him.

He nodded, taking them from her without a word.

Ramirez surveyed him a moment, her expression firm but not unkind. “Is there anyone who you’d want to call to let them know you’re alright? Spouse? Family? Friends?” She asked.

Barnes had one sister alive in New York, and of course, Steve Rogers would love to know where he was at, so would Hydra and a hundred other interested parties who would like nothing more than to bring him into their fold. “No.” he answered shortly.

She nodded. “Well, whatever the case. You can stay in the barn as long as you need.”

“Why?”

Ramirez raised an eyebrow, but otherwise made no indication that his tone had shocked or otherwise offended her. “Because you just saved my ass from Jack-ass Roberts and because it doesn’t look like you have anywhere else to go that isn’t jail or a ditch on the side of the road.”She shrugged. “I have people who are going to be in and out today. No one should bother you in the barn. Let me know if you need anything.” She then walked off without another word.

His gaze followed her out to the secondary paddock where a single grey speckled horse was being held. She climbed on top of the fence and sat there observing the creature as it paced the length of the paddock. The woman was talking to the horse, but he couldn’t exactly make out what was being said.

Shaking his head, he retreated inside to barn this time closing the stall door behind him. Sinking onto the floor, he opened the Ziploc bag, and the scent of warm flour rose up to greet him. Unfolding the paper towels, he removed a warm flour tortilla. He sniffed it uncertainly before taking a bite. Chewing and swallowing he turned to the thermos and opening it he found bits of onion and corn bobbing in the broth. Disturbing the fluid gently he could feel larger particulate that had settled at the bottom of the container, chunks of pork and potatoes and corn.

He frowned taking another bite of tortilla and a large sip of the broth. This woman wasn’t frightened of him, or at the very least didn’t appear to be so. _She should be, She should call the cops, or call someone._ Instead, she was feeding him and clothing him and giving him a place to stay. Again the question was why? Why on earth would anyone in their right mind want to protect him? He finished the broth and settled back down into the stall, his eyes focused on the stall door even as they started to pull closed.

***

“Ghost.” Magdalen Ramirez addressed the grey speckled stallion flatly from her perch atop the paddock fence. “Can I ask you a question?” She sighed. Reaching instinctively for the silver chair around her neck, strung with two gold bands she rolled the chain between her finger and thumb. “What the fuck am I doing?” Unsurprisingly the horse didn’t answer. “Yup.” The woman nodded, climbing down into the paddock she pulled on her work gloves. “I don’t know either.”

She walked in large circles around the paddock watching the horse eye her warily. He was doing better since Suzanne had brought him to Last Chance Ranch back in March and had let her work with the starved, abused, tortured creature.Glancing back at the barn, she stopped and shook her head.“Damn it, Ramirez.” She muttered continuing her walk through the paddock. “You have a goddamn soft spot for starved, abused, and tortured creatures, don’t you?”And the man currently occupying stall ten was probably one of the tougher cases she’d ever had stumble into her barn tripping balls and half emaciated. 

His eyes. Ramirez couldn’t get that look in his eyes out of her head. First when she’d come upon him in the barn and then again when he’d appeared in the barn doorway when Roberts had grabbed her. There was something savage and almost animalistic in those eyes. Like a wounded beast trapped in a corner, prepared to kill anything that threatened him, anything or anyone.

“I should call the cops. I should fucking call the cops.” She muttered. _Because that’s not escalating the situation AT ALL._ If she called the cops someone was going to get hurt, and she was pretty certain it wasn’t going to be death on two legs in there. 

How did this shit always seem to happen to her? This wasn’t the first vagrant she’d had in her barn, and likely not the last, but he was the first to give her the bone-chilling once over. The guy had a presence; there was no denying that. It was now up to her to make the next move.

_You told the guy he could stay as long as he needed to you damn moron._ She silently scolded herself. _If he’s like the rest of them, he’ll be outta here as soon as he’s able._ She reasoned. _And if he’s not?_ The ever-responsible “adult” voice in the back of her head nagged _I dunno? I’ll improvise._ It was a bullshit copout from the nagging twinge in the pit of her stomach. She couldn’t just kick him out. He’d just admitted that he didn’t have anyone to call. _There are services for that Mags._ And of the system is just sooooo good at helping cases like him isn’t it?That’s why she was here, wasn’t it? That’s why she was doing what she was doing. That’s why her facility was called Last Chance Ranch. This was where people came when they’d run out of options, only this guy hadn’t filled out an application and made an appointment.

_So what’s the plan then genius?_ Plan? Well, there wasn’t really a plan now was there? Planning hadn’t exactly been in the cards for her in at least two years.The plan, the best she could reason, was to get him on his feet and on his way. He wasn’t her client or her responsibility beyond that. _He needs help, professional help._ That wasn’t her place. If he reached out for help if he asked her for help then sure she could get him the help he needed, but there was no way in hell she was going to call in the cops. He wasn’t posing any threat to himself or others, and until such time she would just plod on and provide shelter and food for the poor bastard. 

It was yet again another one of her copouts, but it was the best she could do in the present circumstance. She stopped pulling some hay from the large round bale and extended it to the horse who was now watching her carefully rather than fearfully. Ghost approached just close enough to take the hay from her hand. She smiled, “Atta boy.” Over a month and a half of working daily with this poor creature had led to this moment. It took everything she had not to laugh and cry simultaneously. 

When the horse had eaten the whole clump of hay from her hand and then realized there was no more he trotted away back over to the trough where his oats would be this evening to investigate if any had manifested. She laughed, lowering her hand and arm. “Little victories huh, Ghost?” 

She turned at the sound of a vehicle coming up the gravel driveway. Checking the time she shook her head. “Always on time.” Climbing out of the paddock she approached the silver sedan now stopped on the drive, waiting as its passengers stepped from the vehicle. 

It was James Baker, his wife Steff, and their little girl Molly. “I’ll be just a minute, Ramirez,” James called over his shoulder, before returning to the hushed conversation with Steff.

“Not a problem, Lieutenant.” She replied, taking a few respectful steps away to allow them to converse.

“Miss Maggie! Miss Maggie!” Molly’s voice caught her attention, and she knelt to receive the girl’s embrace as the six-year-old rushed to her, a well-loved paper in hand. 

“Molly sweetheart. You can’t just run off like that!” Steff started to approach. “I’m sorry Maggie. Molly, you know better than that.”

“She’s alright,” Maggie smiled, returning her attention to the little girl who was doing her best to shove the paper into her hands. “What’s this?” She asked, glancing between the paper and the drawing.

“For you,” Molly said.

The drawing was a family portrait with three stick figures expertly drawn with Mommy, Daddy, and Me all clearly labeled. There was also a blue house with a green tree out front. Beside the tree was a brownish creature with long legs and an unwieldy tale that was labeled Ms. McSmush. Beside the horse was another stick figure carefully drawn with brown rather than black crayon with a mass of long hair rather than the afros she’d drawn for herself and her parents, labeled my friend Ms. Maggie. Maggie smiled. “For me? It’s beautiful thank you.” 

“My mommy put my hair up just like yours!” Molly announced proudly. 

Maggie looked down and found that yes the child indeed had her hair in a similar style, done up in a halo twist. Although because the girl's hair was far shorter than hers, there were a few more pins holding the braids in place It was frankly, adorable. “You look beautiful! I love them” Maggie smiled. “How has school been?”

Molly shrugged making a noncommittal sound as her parents approached. Maggie looked at the little girl and smiled. “I gotta get to work, alright? Thank you very much for your drawing, it’s going to get put up on my fridge.” She folded the drawing up and put it in her back pocket.

“Come on Molly. We need to let Ms. Maggie and your dad get to work, we’ll see them in a little while.” Stephanie called.

“Bye Ms. Maggie!” Molly gave her a quick hug before running up to her dad to do the same.

“Lieutenant, ma’am,” She nodded standing up.

This earned a good-humored eye roll from the adults and a widening grin from Maggie. “You two have fun,” She smiled.

“We’ll see you in a little while.”Steff took Molly by the hand and walked back toward the car.

She and James waited until the car had disappeared back down the drive before either of them spoke. James sighed heavily. It was one of those sighs that meant they were in for a difficult session. They hadn’t had one for a while, but James was due one. “Come on James,” Maggie pat him on the back, “Ms. McShmush is waiting for you.” 

James nodded following behind her. They didn’t bother with the small talk. Instead, Maggie hummed as they walked up to the small sandy arena where the small sandy brown mare Ms. McSmush was lumbering around the perimeter. They entered the arena, and Maggie turned to her client. “Alright. Let’s start off with a couple of deep breaths James.” 

He nodded, running his hand over the short hair growth curled on his scalp took large exaggerated breaths, just to let her know that he was at least attempting. “Whenever you’re ready, bring Ms. McShmush over here to the fence, she needs a good brushing.” 

Still, he said nothing. After a moment James sighed marching over to Ms. McSmush. The horse moved away from him as he approached, eyeing him warily. He stopped shaking his head, muttering under his breath.

“It’s okay. She’s just a little uncertain. That’s alright. Think about how you’re approaching her and what type of energy are you bringing into your exchange.” Maggie coaxed, watching his body language. His whole body was tense, his shoulders, however, were hunched, and he flexed his hand and fingers tightly into a fist. He wasn’t on the verge of a panic attack, but was frustrated and angry, and exhausted. He hadn’t had this much trouble approaching McSmush in a while. 

James muttered something under his breath, turning he marched from the arena and toward the barn. Right exactly where she didn’t want anyone.

“Oh shit,” Maggie swore under her breath charging after him. This was the last thing in the world she needed to happen.

***

He lay on the floor of the barn listening to the sounds outside the barn. A family had arrived, then the car had gone and now it was only the woman and the man, she’d called him James. He paused at the sound of approaching footsteps. They were approaching the barn. Scrabbling up, he pressed his back against the door of the stall door, listening as Ramirez and the man identified as James entered the barn. They both stopped in the middle, neither party speaking or saying anything. 

_What the hell is this?_ He strained to listen for any indication of what was happening only feet away. His palm itched, he needed to move, he needed to get out before he was discovered. He paused as the woman, Ramirez, spoke. “I’m going to sit. If that’s okay, been on my feet all day, I could take a load off.” He heard her sit on the wood floor of the barn. She paused. “You can join me if you like.” 

“I’m fine.” The man, James, answered tersely. 

“You’re good,” She replied. There was something reassuring in her voice, the easiness with which she spoke... yet the tension coming off the other person told a different story.“What’s going on? Let’s talk through it.”

_Let’s talk through it?_ He couldn’t believe his own ears. This man didn’t want to talk. Everything about him was coiled and ready to strike. He didn’t even have to see the man to know that was the case.

There was the sound of someone much larger than Ramirez, pacing the length of the barn before they stopped near where Ramirez had sat down. “Molly.”

_His daughter?_ It was such a tiny thing, a man saying his daughter’s name, but there was terror in his voice. _Why?_ He couldn’t help but wonder. 

“Your daughter.” 

“Yeah,” James answered after a moment, an audible lump in his throat. “I—I uhhh—I Just, it just.” He stammered into silence.

“It’s okay. Take your time. Slow, deep breaths.” She instructed gently, this incredible tenderness in her voice.

“Molly.” The name came out as nearly a phantom as the man repeated his daughter’s name. “She’s getting big Ramirez.”

The woman made a general noise of encouragement

“It’s scary. When they’re first born, they’re helpless and tiny, and you can’t really imagine how this could possibly be a human, and now...now she’s talking and walking, and she’s so damn smart and curious about the world.” He paused, exhaling a shaking breath. “How do I know I’m not going to mess up? With all this shit that can go wrong in a normal circumstance, how am I supposed to be a parent...the way that I am? I don’t want her to turn out like me. It’s so, so hard to come back after all that, and try to be the person that I was. But I have to. I have to do it for Molly and Stephanie. Christ, that woman’s been through hell because of me. How can I possibly do anything right, after what I’ve done?” He sniffled.

Ramirez gave him a moment before she spoke again. “It’s hard to adjust to civilian life after being out there, hard to take off the armor you forged to keep yourself alive out there. It takes practice, and it takes time, but the fact that you’re here putting in the time and effort to realize you’re wearing the armor in the first place means that you don’t want to have to carry around this weight for the rest of your life,” She said. 

“God. That’s so fucking frightening.” He hissed through his teeth.

“It is.” She agreed. “But you start with the small stuff, with the choices you make, the words that you use, how you treat yourself and your fellow humans,” She paused. “No one wakes up a villain or a hero, a good parent or a bad parent, a good person or a bad person. It’s the choices we make that define us, each and every day. So start small. When the world is violent try to be gentle, when you’re frustrated try to be patient, when you could lie try to be honest, when you’re angry try to be understanding. Every choice, every action matters. Our past doesn’t define us, but our choices now and today help shape our tomorrow.”

There was a long pause. James snorted, “That’s a nice canned speech Ramirez, but not all of us can be you, yanno?” 

“I wouldn’t want you to be. I can honestly say I fail more often than I succeed at following my own advice.” She chuckled. “But the take away should be choice, a’right? Nothing is set in stone. That’s why you’re here remember?” 

James sniffled slightly. 

“And just because I _may_ have practiced that speech in a mirror for just this moment, it doesn’t make it any less true.” She added.

There was a long pause, and he wasn’t sure what was going to happen next. The air was thick and heavy. “Come on. Let’s get back to it.” James said after a moment.

“Alright. That’s good. You go on ahead. I’ll be right behind you.” Ramirez instructed as she stood up. 

The larger pair of footsteps left the barn and headed back toward the arena and paddock. Ramirez’s footsteps instead approached his stall. She stopped, looking down through the stall window at him, he met her gaze, it was only for half a second, maybe even less before he looked down and away again. Wordlessly she walked from the barn, leaving him alone again in the silence. 

He waited until her footsteps had disappeared completely before he felt that he could breathe again. He exhaled sharply, looking down he found that he was shaking. Why? Why was he reacting this way? After all that he’d endured, all that he’d seen and done, why was he now reacting like this? It had been a close call, that much was true. It was also that he knew he’d invaded on an intimate and deeply personal moment. Ramirez’s quick glance had told him as much. It wasn’t so much a threat of violence as a warning, perhaps almost a reminder. _These people are under MY protection._

He shook his head, wincing. The left shoulder was flaring up again. He pulled off his right glove with his teeth, biting down into the thick leather. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to wait out the pain, _Make it stop, please make it stop._

He wracked his brain, searing for something, anything to take his mind from the pain.

Her eyes. They were the first thing that came to mind. Her expression when she’d looked down at him. The ferocity of it all. It wasn’t anger or hatred in her eyes, it was a warning, like a lioness protecting her pride. _I have allowed you into my pride, but I will not tolerate anyone who might hurt them._

He had seen her stand up to Roberts, but he had been a fraction of his size. Did she really think she’d be able to inflict real harm? No that wasn’t the message in her expression. It was a warning, not a threat.

What the hell is this place anyway? A training facility of some kind? A therapy facility? What did the horses have to do with it?

Another wave of pain watched over him, and he clamped down harder on the glove.

Hydra, Hydra had done this to him. They’d turned him into this. They’d turned him into this, and this was the cost. ‘I’ll kill them. I’ll kill them all for that they did to me, for what they made him do.’ 

No. He couldn’t let them find him, couldn’t let them turn him back into their weapon. What he wanted was inconsequential. He couldn’t allow them to turn him into a weapon again. He wouldn’t kill or hurt, or maim for them ever again. He couldn’t let that happen. He faded in and out, aware of the sounds of vehicles and people coming and going, but as the woman said, no one bothered him, leaving him with his thoughts and the ever-looming threat of nightmares.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed the update. Please remember to comment, subscribe, or give kudos! Feedback is welcome and appreciated!


	3. Baffled Expectations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The author would like to note that this is just fanfic and is not in any way financially profiting from this particular fic.

He was awake before Ramirez arrived in the barn the next morning. Waiting, bracing for what was to come. Wondering what retribution he would receive for yesterday’s blunder. Planning his next move. If he could manage to move at all.

“Good Morning Ladies and Gentlemen” The woman announced cheerfully, shoving the doors open. He could hear her footsteps fall heavy as she walked over to the radio wedged precariously on a shelf and flipped it on. It crackled to life before the station came in, and Tejano music filled the barn as she collected the feed buckets. “Good morning Shadow.” She greeted the massive Clydesdale first. “Mrs. Honey-oats, Mr. McSmush, Countess Peachy Pie...” Down the line she went dumping a bucket of morning oats into the troughs. Each of her horses had unusual names, things sounding like storybook characters rather than belonging to the massive creatures inhabiting the barn.

Over the sound of eight massive animals chomping on their breakfast, he could hear her slowly approach the stall he was occupying. There was the rustle of a plastic bag and the clink-thud of something being slowly set on the wood floor. Then a breathless pause before she walked to the office.

He didn’t budge. Would she be angry about what had happened yesterday? She hadn’t seemed upset, but he had been in the middle of something very personal between her and James. What would she do as punishment? Would she cut him off as a consequence? Make him fend for himself? It only made sense. Hydra had done worse for less. Being in the wrong place at the wrong time... He did all he could not to shudder at the very thought.

He waited until she’d led all the horses from the barn before he made his way to the stall door and peered out. He frowned at the plastic grocery bag that sat outside the door. Pulling it into the stall, he retreated to the back of the stall before opening the bag and surveying the contents. There was two large bottles of water, a sleeve of crackers, and the thermos of broth. She’d also included tortillas like the day before. He paused, at the sound of her approaching footsteps. “Hey.” She called out, “I’m going to placing round bales, Suzanne is going to be here in a little while. She’s not going to bother you in here. There shouldn’t be anyone in here today.” Ramirez paused. “Sorry about yesterday. That was...” She hesitated trying to select her words carefully, “unexpected.” She decided finally.

He didn’t respond. What was there to say? He was the intruder. Why was she apologizing to him? She should be angry with him. There should be consequences. Only she wasn’t angry. Or even upset. She’d included more food today than she had yesterday.

“Have a good day.” She said slowly after a moment and walked from the barn.

He waited until her footsteps had disappeared before he unwrapped the tortillas she’d left for him. He ate slowly, taking careful, measured bites out the tortillas. The broth and crackers he’d save for later. Had she made them fresh? Why would she make fresh tortillas for me? He pondered taking another bite. The ones yesterday had been warm. Perhaps she had made a large batch. Was she cooking just for him? Surely she had a family or someone in the house with her that she was cooking for, and he was just getting her leftovers. That had to be it. Why would she make food from scratch for him?

It’s only me. That’s what she’d said. But then she’d also said that she’d never taken her husband’s name. Did she have a family? Or was she actually alone out here?

He shook his head, immediately regretting it as it made his vision spin. Then, just as quickly his stomach turned. Stumbling to his feet and from the barn, he made it to the outbuilding’s toilets just in time to throw up the meager contents of his stomach.

Shit. He spat into the commode before flushing. His whole body shook, his stomach twisting and contracting. Rising slowly, body aching in complaint, he went to the door and locked it. Returning to the sink, he alternated between splashing cool water on his face and rinsing his mouth to get the taste of bile out. He ran his tongue over his teeth and paused. After a moment he turned to the lockers. Rummaging through them, he retrieved a toothbrush still in the package and an unopened tube of toothpaste. The mint tingled and burnt, but the sensation of clean teeth after not brushing them for a while made him feel human. Perhaps he’d even venture to say normal. Turning off the water and wiping his mouth, he glanced in the mirror, catching his gaze in the reflection only a moment before his eyes darted away again.

Barnes is the only commando to give his life in service of his country.

He’d seen the dead man’s memorial. Seen the photos and video of Barnes and Steven Rogers in the Smithsonian. Even now he could see the dead man’s eyes in his reflection. So the question persisted. Could he be James Buchanan Barnes? Could he be the man that Steve Rogers thought he was?

Or had James Barnes died in 1945 like the museum had said and had someone or something else taken his place? How could he possibly know? The woman’s words from the day before came drifting back. Choice. Could he really choose to be James Buchanan Barnes? What did that mean? What did it mean to be James Barnes? James Barnes was a good person. He, the soldier, decidedly was not. Could he simply choose to be James Barnes? No one wakes up a good or bad person. That’s what she’d said. Yes. But that didn’t apply to him. That couldn’t apply to him. He didn’t get a choice. Not in that. Not until he knew that hydra couldn’t crawl back inside his skull and make him forget.

He froze at the sound of an approaching vehicle. Suzanne. The woman had said Suzanne wouldn’t bother him in the barn. Pulling on his gloves and unlocking the door he started toward back toward the barn, but stopped, watching as a battered pickup truck pulled up the drive hauling an empty horse trailer behind it. To his surprise a slender woman with frizzled gray hair climbed out and looked around, leveling her gaze on him. “You boys are out early.” She said, with the voice of someone who’d smoked six packs a day since she was twelve. Looking about as weathered and beat up as her truck, she leveled him with a piercing gaze, which could have rivaled his own.

“Ma’am?” It was all he could think of to say.

“You must be new, I’m Suzanne,” The woman approached him, extended her hand out to shake his. He took the woman’s spidery, bony hand, and shook it. Her grasp was firm and strong, her gaze direct and earnest. This was a woman who’d worked every day of her life and wasn’t about to take shit from anyone. Him included.

“Matt.” He answered the unasked question, cringing internally as he did. Matt? Why Matt? It was the only name he could think of at the time, and now he was stuck with it, at least for the time being. It was a cover, and he would make it work. Besides. What was he supposed to say? James Barnes? Bucky? That wasn’t his name to claim, not yet, maybe not ever. 

“Good to meet you, Matt. She normally doesn’t have her volunteers out this early, is she around?” Suzanne asked brusquely.

“She’s out placing round bales. I can go get her if you want,” He offered, wanting more than anything to get out from under this woman’s sharp and scrupulous gaze.

“I don’t think that’s going to be necessary,” Suzanne replied, motioning behind him with her chin.

“Suzanne!” Ramirez’s voice reached them from some distance away. “Give me a minute; I’ll be right there.”

“Take your time; just talking with Matt.” Suzanne returned her full attention to him. She looked him up and down. “I take it this is your first time out. She hasn’t even gotten you a shirt yet. Come on, need to get you properly outfitted.” She started toward the outbuilding and motioned for him to follow. He glanced between Ramirez and Suzanne before following the older woman. What choice did he really have? They came to the outbuilding, and Suzanne entered, digging through the many drawers inside.

“I think this will work.” She said shoving a shirt at him. It was a grey long-sleeved shirt, with a logo on the chest. He looked up and met Suzanne’s expectant gaze.

“Thanks.” He said.

“No problem kiddo.” She said, walking past him and toward the woman who was standing beside the secondary enclosure where a single grey horse was watching them nervously.

When he was sure that Suzanne and Ramirez were occupied in their task, he slunk back to the barn stall and sunk back down in the hay. He spread the shirt across his lap. It had a logo on the left side, a brand, the words Last Chance Ranch surrounding the brand. The best he could figure it was an L with an R on the inside of the L, and in inverted C.It still didn’t give him any indication of what exactly this place was or why exactly the woman had volunteers. She was obviously running some kind of charity organization, community service type thing. But how exactly everything fit together was still a mystery. He squeezed his eyes shut, pinching the bridge of his nose as his head continued to pound, and strained to listen to the conversation between Ramirez and Suzanne.

 

***

 

“Come to check on our boy?” Maggie greeted Suzanne as they both reached the gate.

“Yeah, figured it was time for a check up on that shoulder wound.” Suzanne agreed climbing into the enclosure.

Suzanne did her visual evaluation, and then wordlessly they retreated back to the fence.

“How’s he looking?” Maggie asked when they were both on the other side of the fence.

“The shoulder looks like it’s healing, no irritation or any major issues with mobility that I can tell,” Suzanne said.

“That’s good to hear.” And it was. Since Suzanne had brought him in, she’d managed to get some weight on him and watched as his body had stitched itself back together after years of abuse and neglect. But that wasn’t why Suzanne was here. Suzanne was notoriously overbooked, and wouldn’t stop by here just to check on Ghost, not unless Maggie had asked her to.Maggie paused, chewing on the corner of her lip. “Why are you really here Suzanne?”

“Heard Junior came by yesterday.”

It wasn’t a question. “Yeah, unfortunately.” Maggie rolled her eyes.

“You alright?”

“Yeah.”

“His daddy should’ve belted his ass, spoiled brat.” Suzanne shook her head.

“Little late for that, anyway not much we can do.”

“I heard from Senior that your volunteer ‘bout scared the piss out of the little man,” Suzanne replied, watching Maggie’s expression for a reaction. Maggie didn’t say anything. “News like that travels fast.”

“Well, nothing he didn’t deserve.”

“I’m not disagreeing. I’m glad you’re okay.” The older woman smiled, squeezing Maggie’s shoulder. “I’m grateful. You deserve all the help you can get, and if it keeps Junior away then all the better.”

Maggie returned the smile. “Well, whatever works right?”

“Damn straight.” Suzanne nodded firmly. She paused. “What’s your plan for when he raises your hay prices again?”

Maggie hesitated. What was she supposed to say? That she hadn’t had a plan for at least two years and had been winging it? That she was at any given point ready to throw in the towel and call quits on the whole thing? She couldn’t admit that to this woman. Mainly because she knew if she let on how bad it was she might start crying and never stop. “I hadn’t really put much thought into it.” She admitted finally. “I know he’s going to. It’s just a matter of when. I just.” She broke off, rubbing her forehead.

“You need a plan kid. Particularly since it sounds like Junior is getting aggressive,” Suzanne warned.

“I know Suzanne. I know.” She sighed, feeling a slight hitch in her chest, a lump threatening to form in her throat.

If Suzanne noticed she didn’t say anything. “Well. Fortunately, Roberts doesn’t have a vendetta against me, so if it comes to it, I can let you have some of my hay until you figure out a solution to yourpissing match with the little bastard.”

“He started it.” Maggie protested.

“Doesn’t matter who started it dear. All that matters is you keeping this place afloat.” Suzanne glanced down at her watch. “I gotta go, let me know if you need anything, or if the old man’s condition changes any.” She said motioning to the horse enclosure.

“Yes, ma’am.” Maggie nodded.

“I’m not a ma’am,” Suzanne said.

“Yes, Suzanne.” Maggie stuck out her tongue.

“Good. Better.” Suzanne grinned.

“Have a good day.”

“You too.”

Maggie waved as Suzanne drove back down the gravel road and disappeared. Turning to the picnic bench just outside the enclosure, she removed a small note pad from her back pocket. Her stomach twinged, the telltale sign that an anxiety attack was forthcoming. Things were only going to get worse. She knew that. She’d known that the moment Jack-ass Roberts had shown up early day before yesterday. Perhaps it was just the fact that Suzanne was acknowledging her worry and concern about the situation.

‘Cross that bridge when we get to it Mags.’She could practically hear him say.She sunk down on the bench, and immediately touched the chain around her neck, turning the silver cord between her finger and thumb. Yeah. But you aren’t here to be a part of we. It’s just me. What the hell am I supposed to do?

Maggie exhaled sharply, pulling the pencil from her hair, and made notations on her to do list. Returning the pencil to its place, she let her head rest in both hands, taking deep long breaths. It was nine a.m. She still had the whole day ahead of her, and the to-do list was only going to get longer.

 

***

He exhaled as the truck drove away, glancing down at the t-shirt still clenched in his hand and counted to ten.

Rising to his feet, blinking away the dark spots that danced in his vision, started outside back toward the outbuilding to return the shirt. He wasn’t one of her volunteers, and he seriously doubted that she would want him anywhere near the horses or anyone else for that matter. He was a threat without getting a thousand-pound animal involved. He was halfway to the outbuilding when he paused to observe Ramirez, who sat stooped at the picnic table, slowly writing on a scrap of paper. He craned his neck. It looked like a to-do list, some numbers, and figures in one of the corner. Although, if it was a to-do list, it was more than any one person could ever handle.

Volunteers, perhaps? He glanced around. Suzanne had said that they weren’t normally out this early. But it was verging on 9:30 almost 10:00 am, and there wasn’t anyone that he could see. Was it just her? And that ridiculous to do list?

“So Matt.” The woman said slowly looking up and turning to face him. “That’s Suzanne.”

What was he expecting him to say? He wasn’t entirely sure, but she was watching him, as closely as he was watching her. She was gauging his reaction, trying to draw him out.

“She’s my vet. She’s around here with some regularity.” She said explained, almost breathless as if trying to find a way to fill the silence.

He nodded. “She gave me this shirt.” He said after a moment glancing down at the shirt he was still holding it in his hand.

“Oh. She must’ve thought you’re one of my volunteers.” Ramirez said brightly.

“Volunteers?” He echoed.

“The Ranch.” She said motioning to the Last Chance Ranch t-shirt. Again he said nothing. “It’s an equine assisted therapy ranch.” She explained quickly. “Specifically for veterans. It’s a non-profit, run by yours truly, Suzanne, and a rotating group of volunteers, mostly veterans, but I do try to work with ex-cons.”

So he wasn’t the first likely to stumble into her barn. And she was used to working with former soldiers and criminals. That would explain the supplies in her outbuilding and her lack of surprise at discovering him in her barn. Still. It told him very little about her. Who the hell was she? And why was she so eager to help out these outcasts? To help him?

“You’re the only one out here?” He asked.

The woman tensed and it was only then did he realize what a threatening question that was. He took a step back, trying to make himself appear somehow smaller. Somehow less of a threat to her and her livelihood. He was a threat. His very existence was dangerous, but he didn’t want to kill her. She’d given him a cover, albeit a flimsy one that wouldn’t last long, but it was a cover he could use for the time being. But through her nonverbal response, it confirmed at least one question he had about her. She was alone out here. There was no one else. Was that thy Roberts had tried to hurt her? Because he knew or at the very least had thought that she would be alone out here when he came to harass her? It was logical. It made sense. If he was going to torture or kill someone, it was always best not to have an audience. Somewhere isolated, with minimal chances of being interrupted.

He blinked, realizing where his mind had just gone. The woman was watching him uncertainly. “Seems like a lot for one person.” He managed after a moment.

This, fortunately, seemed to defuse the situation. “Well. I do have help.” She smiled weakly. “But yeah. It’s a lot.” She sighed. “Well. I should get back to it.” She turned back to her work at the bench returning to the too long to do list and taking a sip from the coffee cup that had long ago lost all trace of warmth.

He nodded, moving slowly he set the t-shirt beside her.He had no reason to keep it. He wasn’t a volunteer out here. He couldn’t help her. He couldn’t even help himself. What use could she have for someone like him?

She put her hand on it, and paused, looking up at him. “Keep it.” She said, picking it up extended it to him. “At the very least it’s something you can change into if you wanna wash what you’re wearing.”

He hesitated a moment. There was no expectation that he should help her; there wasn’t even an ask in her remark. She had more than enough reason to ask. The state of that to do list was enough to make anyone want to ask for help, particularly if someone was freeloading in your barn. No comment about repayment, no remark about making himself useful. It was just an extra t-shirt if he wanted to wash the clothes he was wearing. She was helping him, protecting him without expectation of repayment. She was doing this not out of a sense of obligation but because she genuinely wanted to help him.

He took it, mumbling his thanks and she nodded returning to her to do list.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Okay full disclousure. I absolutely love Suzanne and I think everyone needs a Suzanne in their life. Meanwhile Ramirez is an absolute hot mess. Poor Bucky has no idea what to do with the both of them.
> 
> Sorry this one was a bit shorter, but more length to come next chapter! (I hope).
> 
> As always, comments, Kudos, and subscriptions are well and appreciate!


	4. Rain on a Leaky Roof

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The author would like to note that this is just fanfic and is not in any way financially profiting from this particular fic. The characters belonging to Marvel belong to Marvel. However, all characters created by me belong to me. Yanno how it is.

 He sat in the barn, holding the t-shirt, trying to decide what he wanted to do. What did he want? Well for one, he wanted the pounding behind his eyes to stop. He wanted his whole body not to ache and throb like one gigantic bruise. He wanted his stomach to settle. He wanted the noise, the whispers, the screams, the memories in his brain to fall silent. But beyond that, he didn’t know what he wanted. He knew what he had to do. He had to survive. Had to keep moving. Had to avoid falling back into Hydra’s grasp at all costs. Right now, he had to get well enough to be able to keep moving. Everything else, what he wanted, was secondary. Yet, here he was contemplating what that t-shirt meant, and what Ramirez giving it to him meant. He had a choice.

He paused, wincing as his spine began to prick, his whole body twinging. Pressure changes. A storm was coming. He put the shirt aside and pulled off his right glove. Running his hand through his hair and over his face he breathed deeply, the smell of humidity and damp before the storm rolling in and filling his lungs. His chest ached with the deep inhale, but the smell of clean, fresh air made the exertion worth it. 

Then the storm started, at first nothing more than a patter. Then it swelled, magnifying to a roar on the roof overhead. He closed his eyes, momentarily pondering just standing out in it, soaking in the water and the stinging sensation of the rain falling against his skin. How long had it been? How long since he’d just stood in the rain for the pleasure of it.

He paused. He could feel it, the electricity in the air, crackling sharp. He flinched as the lightning flashed, and the thunder boomed around him. He could hear the buzzing crackling of the electrodes around his skull, and he tensed, his body preparing for what would come next. His hand was shaking, palm sweaty; he could feel his heart race, pulse-pounding dully in his throat. He could feel his breathing start to hitch. The pain, his body was waiting for the pain. His mind felt ready to cleave itself in half, preparing to void itself of his memories. _Wipe him. Start over._

Jumping to his feet, He paced the length of the stall, blinking as he tried to focus, tried to ground himself. Another flash of lightning followed by a low rumble of thunder. It rattled the barn and in his chest. He stopped his pacing, glancing around at the single light that illuminated the barn. It flickered from the storm, casting an eerie shade around the stall. _You’re okay._ He told himself, trying to focus on anything but the sound of cracking and booming thunder. 

Then he heard it, the slow, drip drip drip on the wood floors. Then it was just like a switch had flipped in his brain. A compulsion. A need to find the source of the drip and to fix it. He stopped, looking down, scanning for evidence of a leak. He walked from the stall and glanced around, eyes focused down on the floor, ears bent, fixated on the sound of the drip. Pausing at a wet spot on the floor, he looked up, flinching as a drop of water fell on his face. He wiped his face, handshaking substantially less. The loft floor had a steady drip of water. He was getting closer.

He exhaled sharply at the sound of another clap of thunder. _Focus. Breathe._ He put his right hand to his left shoulder, the seam of flesh and metal itching, his palm burning, he head pounding. He staggered to the loft ladder and started the climb up. The loft floor was pooled with water, and soft spots had formed from prolonged exposure to the elements. He was getting closer. His eyes scanned the barn roof, looking for any indication of where the water might be seeping in from. The roar from the rain outside was near deafening, but he froze at the sound of Ramirez running into the barn. 

She was wearing a black rain jacket, but beneath it, he could see wet hair clung to her flushed face. She grabbed a bundle of lines with clasps at the end and rushed back outside. _She’s bringing in the horses._ He turned squarely toward the ladder, wondering if he should climb down and help her. Wordlessly he climbed down and opened all the stalls doors, and then climbed back up to resume his search for the origin of the leak. Two by two, as was her normal custom at the end of the day, she walked the horses into the barn until they were all back in their stalls.

Her breath was heavy and condensed in the air as she shut the door behind her, the rain still roaring just outside. Shaking off she went to the large wood lit a fire before pulling off her jacket. She then went to the radio and turned the dial searching for a different station.

Satisfied she turned around to stall ten. “Matt?” She called. Approaching the stall, she peered in, her face contorting into a deep frown. “Matt?” She called again, this time with more of an edge to her voice.

“Here.” He answered.

She turned and looked up, surveying him uncertainly, trying to piece together what he was doing.

“The roof has a leak.” He said flatly, answering her unasked question of ‘ _what the fuck?’_ Which, to be fair, he would’ve been wondering the same thing.

“Oh.” Her expression darkened, the lines around her eyes and mouth more grave. “Shit.” She mouthed so softly; he wouldn’t have heard it had he not been watching her carefully. “How bad is it?” She asked with a heavy dose of dread.

He glanced pointedly at the growing puddle of water near her feet. She glanced down and then up to the loft where he was. Her expression worked in silent calculation. Honestly? She needed the whole roof replaced. It looked well overdue and from what he could tell this was just the latest in a long line of problems she’d had with the roof.

“I know it needs to be replaced altogether. I have the materials...I just...I just...” She turned, swearing under her breath.

“I can patch it.”

“What did you say?”She turned back, starring, almost as surprised as he was to hear those words coming out of his mouth.

He squeezed his eyes shut, pinching the bridge of his nose, planning out exactly what he was going to say. Mouthing it a few times he took a deep breath. “If you have the tools and materials, I can patch it. It should hold until you get a chance to replace the roof.” 

“Are you sure? I mean you don’t have to do this.” She protested weakly. 

“You just said you have the materials.” He said. “I can patch it.” He paused. “As repayment,” he added slowly.

“No.” Her expression went stony. ‘No. No, you don’t hav—” She paused as her phone started ringing. “Shit. Excuse me.” She turned and walked to the office.

He contemplated what he’d just seen. The absolute horror and dread that had crossed her face that had then nearly given in to panic. She knew the roof was bad. She knew it needed to be replaced. 

_Christ, doesn’t this woman know how to ask for help?_

_And you do?_

That wasn’t the point. _So what was?_

She needed his help, and this was something he could help her with. He didn’t know animals, but he knew carpentry. He knew that. He could help her, and he wanted to help.

Perhaps selfishly he wanted a dry place to stay, and he wanted to limit the number of people who knew where he was hiding out. But there was something fundamental about wanting to help out, something very _James Barnes_ about helping this woman.

He turned away from the edge of the loft and focused on the ceiling. “There you are.” He muttered as he found the leak, the plywood under the shingles had started rotting away from the exposure to the elements. The entire thing would need to be replaced and soon.

He climbed down from the loft and went to the barn door. Scanning the ranch’s landscape through the rain, spotted the tool shed. Pulling up the collar of his jacket he charged out into the driving rain. The water stung his face, and he blinked to keep the rain out of his eyes. He slipped into the tool shed shutting the door behind him. His eyes scanned the disorganized shelves, searching for the right materials and tools he would need to patch the roof.

He pulled off his right glove and ran his fingers over the different implements. He didn’t know exactly what he was looking for, just that he would know when he saw it. There was something soothing in the motion, running his hands over the wooden handles worn smooth by use. He pulled his hand away and rubbed his fingers together. A fine layer of dust covered everything in the shed including the roofing materials. There was also an ample supply of sheetrock that had gone to rot, PVC pipes and unopened cans of paint. In addition to the dust, there was also rust building up on some of the tools. 

She’d confirmed that she was out here alone. What had happened to her husband, Underdhal? What had they planned to do with all of this stuff? Why had those projects been abandoned?

At length, he selected the materials and tools he needed and headed back out into the rain.

Thunder and lightning flashed overhead, and he winced, picking up his pace as he headed back toward the barn. He entered the barn and climbed the loft ladder. The dripping from the leak had quickened.

He’d have to wait until the rain stopped before he could repair the damaged section. While he waited he could create the two missing shingles. 

He glanced around the loft wasn’t an ideal working place, but it did give him a good vantage point of the rest of the barn so no one could sneak up on him.

Fortunately, he’d found a template in the tool shed, so he was able to work from that. The rain had soaked through his clothes, but the warmth of the wood stove and the heat from the massive animals below radiated up to where he was working making it comfortable despite being drenched.

The wind howled whistling through the many cracks and crevices in the roof, and the thunder made him cringe, but he had a job to do now and focused all his will power on finishing. 

He worked the wood, slicing down what he’d grabbed into the shape he was looking for. This was familiar; only he wasn’t entirely sure how. There was something comforting about working with his hands. He also apparently knew what he was doing, as his hands manipulated the tools and wood with ease, almost as if it was second nature. He knew what he was doing; he just wasn't sure how he knew.

What had Barnes been before he was...well killed? He’d been a soldier, an American soldier during the Second World War. Sergeant James Barnes of the 107th. Okay. But what else? What had he been before that? Before the war, before Zola...and him, _The Winter Soldier._

He tried to focus, but the harder he tried to focus on the specific memory the more it seemed to allude him, only succeeding in making his vision spin and his head pound. It was so close and yet infinitely unattainable, just out of his reach.

Regardless, it was satisfying to watch the shingle take shape. To create rather than destroy. _It’s a shingle, two shingles._ He reminded himself. _Only a shingle. Nothing more nothing less._ This wouldn’t absolve him. Helping this woman wouldn’t absolve him of what he’d done. But it was a start wasn’t it? _No._ Now he was being ridiculous. As if a single vaguely selfless act could even begin to touch the decades of horrors and atrocities he’d perpetrated. _But this was a choice wasn’t it?_ He didn’t have to do any of this. 

He paused as the sound of footsteps approaching the ladder. He’d been so engrossed in what he was doing that he almost didn’t hear the woman re-enter the barn. 

“Hey.” She announced her presence softly, doing her best to ease herself into his surroundings. “May I come up? I come bearing gifts.”

He nodded, moving away from the ladder and loft’s edge to give her adequate space.

“Ma’am.” He nodded again in acknowledgment as she emerged from below. Her hair was still wet and sticking to the side of her face, and her chest rose and fell as if she’d just been running.She smiled hauling her satchel onto the loft floor, slowly opened it to reveal the contents inside. 

Two bottles of water and a dozen or so cylindrical objects wrapped in foil “Burritos. Easy to consume while you’re working. How’s your stomach doing? Do you think it can handle something that heavy?”

As if on cue his stomach growled, and he realized that he was actually hungry despite the nausea earlier that had caused him to throw up. “We’ll see.” He said shortly.

She nodded sympathetically, glancing around at what he as doing. “You know you really didn’t have to do this.” She motioned vaguely to the roof.

“You didn’t have to do that.” He said pointedly, motioning to the food she’d just brought up with his chin.

“That’s not the same thing at all.” She protested 

“Payment for services rendered,” He said flatly.

“I wasn’t going to charge you.” She replied crossly.

_You probably should._ He thought, but wouldn’t say it out loud. After all, it wasn’t like he had money he could pay her for feeding him and giving him a relatively dry and warm place to stay. This was _literally_ the bare minimum he could do in exchange for what she was doing for him, free of charge, no questions asked. “I don’t mind.” He mumbled.

She nodded looking down and away, “Thanks.” She said in a small voice. “I do appreciate it.”

They stood there in silence, uncertain of what to say. “Do you want help? She asked slowly after a moment. 

“No. I can manage on my own.”

“Because I can help you if you want me too.” She said.

He paused, looking up at her, met her gaze. He knew she was talking about the roof. That’s what she meant. The roof. That was her only meaning. But he could almost swear that she meant help him. Like, help him help him. How was he going to decline? How was he going to tell her no? After all, she was already doing so much, how could he tell her no? 

Fortunately, he didn’t have to. Her phone rang, making both of them flinch. “I’ll be back. Enjoy lunch.”She rushed down the ladder, leaving the satchel with the food and water on the loft floor. He exhaled slowly as her footsteps faded as she returned to the office. He could hear her talking; it was higher than her normal tone. There was something on edge about it, manic almost.

He looked down at the satchel. It was an old canvas, soaked through because of the rain, well worn with signs of patching and half-hearted repair. He looked up at the roof.On one of the trusses, he could spot three sets of initials meticulously carved into the wood and yet the rest of the roof was in nearly the same state as the canvas satchel. The tools, the roof, the satchel, all telling the same story, but what it was he couldn’t be entirely sure what it was. 

She had a lot of old shit she couldn’t take care of? Perhaps, but there was something else at play here.

 

***

 

Maggie exhaled, hanging up the phone, massaged her temples.

It could’ve been worse, it could always be worse, but the rain certainly hadn’t helped the day. She’d hoped to get some things around the place done, outside, but now because of the rain that wasn’t going to happen. Likewise, she’d had to reschedule five sessions because of the rain and now to top it all off the barn roof was leaking again. 

Well, at the very least Matt was dealing with the roof, though she wasn’t entirely sure of if his help was a blessing or a curse. Really, it was just prolonging the inevitable. The reality that the roof had to be replaced but that she didn’t have the funds to do so, or the time and know how to do it herself. 

_Maybe I could pay Matt_. The thought bounced around in her brain before the sensible part of her put it to a stop. _No. You know nothing about him, and you can’t take advantage of a homeless veteran._ At least she assumed he was a veteran and homeless. And anyway it wouldn’t be taking advantage if she was paying him.

Regardless, it was messy. Even without the scary hobo in her barn, it was messy and complicated. There was money, but also time, and of course, she’d have to house the horses somewhere else during the roof’s replacement.

She moaned softly putting her head down on the desk amongst the snow drifts of unopened mail, and squeezed her eyes shut, trying to stymie the pounding just behind her eyes. She could hear Matt working in the loft. 

_What’s his story?_ She couldn’t help but wonder. _Why on earth was he in this part of New York, and seemingly content to remain a resident in a barn?_ He was unwell that she knew, but he was also without an apparent support network of any kind. Perhaps offering him work might not be such a bad thing. It would give him paid work and would solve her roofing issue. Then when he finished, she could likely give him a shining recommendation, and he might be able to pick up more steady work in the area if that’s what he wanted. 

It felt wrong, selfish, exploitive almost. She would pay the man; it just wouldn’t be at market value. But, she reminded herself, she was giving him free room and board. As he’d so kindly pointed out, she didn’t _have_ to do this, but to do otherwise she felt would be a betrayal of Ranch’s mission, of _her_ mission. 

She picked her head up and reached for the nearest scrap of paper and removed the pencil from her hair. She ran numbers a moment, reaching for the coffee mug sitting on the only bare corner of the desk. Sniffling experimentally she took a big gulp of the frigid stale coffee. 

Well, the coffee was shit, but she was going be able to afford to pay the scary hobo living in her barn a decent wage, so it wasn’t all bad.

Downing the rest of the coffee she rose and returned out into the main area of the barn. All sounds of work had fallen into silence, and now only sound was the pounding of the rain on the roof and the radio crackling out Bidi Bom Bom. 

“Matt?” She called out walking toward the loft ladder. 

“Ma’am?” She heard him shift up in the loft above her.

“Permission to come up?” 

“Sure.”

She climbed the ladder and found that he was sitting next to the leak applying roofing tar. “So.” She began slowly, once she made it onto the floor of the loft. “How’s it going?”

“Applying a temp patch.” He answered shortly.

She nodded, watching him work a moment, trying to summon the courage to say what she wanted to say. This was a bad idea, a really really bad idea, but it was the best one she had, the _only_ one she had at the moment. “So I was thinking.” She began slowly, he froze, his whole body tensing. “Oh. Oh. It’s not bad.” She rushed, “I’d like to pay you to fix my roof.” She blurted out all at once.

“What?” He looked up at her, brows furrowed, sharp blue eyes piercing her with their gaze.

“I…well…you see the condition of the roof, and you seem to have the know how. I’d be happy to pay you to replace the roof.” She explained.

He looked away and down, his lips moving, his eyes focused on the floorboards. “You should probably hire a professional carpenter.” 

“I—just—please—.” She stopped herself before she could continue. It was stupid, and she sounded desperate. She _was_ desperate. Asking some rando who’d stumbled into her barn to help her fix her decrepit barn roof wasn’t exactly on the top of the list of non-desperate things to do. Maggie paused and took a deep breath, trying to ease the manic edge from her voice. “I appreciate your help today,” She continued after a moment. “and as I said earlier, I would be happy to pay you for your work on the roof, regardless.”

He nodded. “That really isn’t necessary.”

This was not going at all how she’d hoped. To be fair, Maggie wasn’t entirely sure what exactly she’d expected was going to happen in this exchange. It wasn’t this, that’s for sure. “I-I-I I understand.” She exhaled slowly. “Just thought I’d offer.”

He said nothing, returning to the roofing tar and the leak.

“All right, good talk.” She turned back to the ladder.

“Why do you want _my_ help?” His voice stopped her, and she turned back around to face him.

Shit. What was she going to say? “I figured you could use the cash to get where you need to go, and I need a new roof. Seemed like a mutually beneficial solution to both of our immediate needs.” She said omitting the fact that she couldn’t afford a new roof, that the whole barn was held together via patch jobs, pure spite, and stubbornness, and that she was fucking desperate. 

“Once the rain stops I’ll replace the two shingles you’re missing.” He said after a moment.

“Sounds like a good plan. Thanks.” She nodded, collecting the empty water bottles and satchel returned to the ladder and down to the office below. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Would you guys be at all interested in the playlist I've created to go with this nonsense? I dunno. Just a thought.
> 
> As always, hope you enjoyed, more next time with the adventures of Bucky Barnes and this Ranch has some problems and also poor Ramirez who just wants a damn rest. We get to meet Bill and Mike, who much like Suzanne and Maggie, are truly too good for this world.


	5. In Need of Professional Help

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Marvel owns what it owns, I own what I own, let's keep it that way shall we? 
> 
> TW: for suicidal ideation in this chapter.

The rain stopped around seven that evening. By then, however, the woman had already called it quits for the day and had returned to the main house. They hadn’t spoken since their last conversation. She’d offered him a job and he’d declined.  He wasn’t a carpenter. He wasn’t even a handyman. He couldn’t do what she was asking of him. It wasn’t just that she was asking him to replace her roof, it was that she was asking him to stay. Roof repair took time, time he couldn’t guarantee.

He climbed out onto the roof the new shingles tucked under his right arm. The roof was slick, which wasn’t half so bad as feeling the wood flex and bend under his weight as he walked. Some of the shingles crumbling or sliding as he approached the leak he’d been working on for the afternoon. He was light on his feet, but he could hear them snap and crackle. Then the shingles under him gave way and he grabbed the roof with his left hand to keep from falling off outright, right arm still wrapped protectively around the two new roof tiles. _Shit. Shit Shit._ He rose again, slowly and cautiously, looking at the fingertip-sized indentations in the shingles. All five digits perfectly marked in the soft rotting wood.  They’d need to be replaced. He couldn't leave that kind of evidence around.

“Goddamn it.” He muttered, yanking the hammer out of his jacket pocket, pulled up the offending shingle to reveal the rotting wood underneath. He stopped, squeezing his eyes shut. He’d just wanted to replace the two tiles that had resulted in the leak. He hadn’t intended on replacing the entire roof for this woman. He’d told her no _._ Quite specifically because he couldn’t spend the time replacing the roof. He couldn’t just pull up the shingle and then not replace it, and he couldn’t just replace the tile knowing the wood beneath it was rotting away.

_She needs professional help._

"So do you, _pal,_ ” He muttered to himself, flexing the metal limb. He could feel something, a sensation in his spine that wasn’t supposed to be there. A slight and faint buzzing, like when one of his actual limbsere falling asleep. He wasn’t sure if it was an intentional flaw in the design of the arm by hydra to make him dependent on them, or if it was just that delicate. Regardless, it was going to become an issue sooner than he wanted or could afford.

He returned his attention back to the roof and steeled his resolve. He couldn’t replace the whole thing, just the two damaged sections. The rest would have to be left to a professional. Crawling the rest of the way to the source of the leak, he secured the two new singles in place, examining the area around the leak. _That needs to be replaced soon too._

 _Not your problem._ He told himself firmly. Satisfied with his work, he turned and started back toward the loft window. There was a crackle and he cringed as his foot went through the roof.

_Shit._

Okay. Okay. He’d repair the sections of the roof he’d damaged. It would keep his location dry and warm for the duration of his stay, and keep him focused on other than the pounding in his skull and buzz in his spine.

He had work to do.

He didn’t sleep that night, his brain was too loud, his thoughts too sharp, and the prospect of replacing at least two large sections of the roof was more than enough to keep anyone awake. Focus was the only way to keep his brain quiet, and shaping and prepping shingles would be enough to do just that.

How long had it been since Hydra had wiped him last? Two weeks? Three weeks? A month? Time was strange and the days had melded together, he wasn’t entirely sure. He didn’t miss it. There wasn’t anything about hydra worth missing, but there had been a certain quietness, a certain stillness of mind that he craved, much like his body craved the chemicals that they’d pumped him full of to keep him docile. It didn’t last long, the calm serenity that came after a mind wipe. But for a moment there was absolute stillness, peace with a singular purpose, compliance. The goal of compliance and the reward that would come with it would occupy his blank mind before other things, other goals were crammed inside. Above all, compliance was key. Comply and we won’t hurt you, comply and you won’t go through another wipe. Comply and you won't be put back under in the choking, suffocating cold. He hasn’t always complied. It was why they’d kept him on ice. But that peace, that stillness was as addicting as the drugs.

Now he was nearly deafened by the loudness of his thoughts, the sharpness of the world around him even as his brain spun. There was no singular mission. Well rather there was, survive and evade capture, but his brain was making it difficult to focus. The fullness of his mind and the memories that clouded his thoughts warped in and out of focus. The soldier’s memories were sharper than those of Bucky Barnes, but they battled for dominance, threatening to rip his head in half.

The noise made it difficult to sleep, and even more difficult to focus, which was not aided at all by his continued nausea and dizziness. Whatever shit Hydra had pumped into him was taking its damn time clearing through his system, but he would push through. He didn’t have a choice.

Focusing was easier when he was occupied. When he had a mission. So he found the tools and supplies he needed and started to work, pushing out everything else until it was the only thing that occupied his thoughts.

He flinched at the sound of the barn doors being pushed open. Blinking, he looked up and around his brain registering the natural light streaming through the loft window.  He’d apparently been too focused. “Good morn-” The woman started, but cut herself off. “Matt?” He looked down to see her face turned up toward him, her brows furrowed.

“Ma’am.” He nodded in response.

“Morning?” She offered. She was holding a metal thermos in one hand, a satchel slung over her shoulders, a slip of paper in her free hand.

“Volunteers today?” He asked motioning to the paper she was holding.

“Yes. Their to-do list.” She nodded, turning she pushed the paper onto a large rusted nail protruding from one of the support beams. “Bill and Mike will be here in about thirty minutes.” She paused, looking back up at him. “Would it be too hopeful to think you’ve reconsidered my offer?”

“There were several sections I damaged trying to patch the leak last night. I’m fixing those.” He explained. He hadn’t reconsidered her offer as such, it was rather his damn brain arguing with him that he couldn’t leave the roof in that condition. It wasn’t his problem, but rather what he could only assume was the last dying semblance of a conscious was making it his problem.

“Ah.” She nodded, a deep crease of worry on her forehead. “Makes sense. I’d still like to pay you for your time, regardless.”

He paused, glancing around. He could use the cash. He would need the money when he left here. He had several caches along his route, but between now and then it would be scraping by, stealing if necessary. Having her _pay_ him for his work would be a way to achieve the same ends without stealing. Yet, something in his stomach twinged. She couldn’t hire a professional carpenter to fix her roof, and she was desperate enough to ask a strange man sleeping in her barn to do the work for her. He couldn’t take her money for ethical reasonsnever mind common decency. He nearly balked at the idea. Decency? Him? “Consider it volunteer work.” He said finally after a moment.

A look, he wasn’t sure if it was exasperation, amusement, or relief, passed over her face, and she nodded. “All right. But you may wanna put on the t-shirt Suzanne gave you. Wouldn’t want anyone to think you’d accidentally stumbled into my barn at random and started doing pro bono carpentry for no apparent reason.” Her sarcasm was thick, and a southern accent dripped from her words like poisoned honey, a wicked smile quirking at the corner of her mouth.

So she was aware of the absurdity of the situation. She wasn’t an idiot. He wasn’t sure if he should be concerned or relieved, but she wasn’t wrong. She was also giving him cover so that he could avoid any inconvenient questions. “Right. Wouldn’t want anyone to get that idea.” He replied dryly, doing the best attempt at sarcasm he could manage at the moment.

Ramirez giggled. It was a light, soft sound. Unexpected, to say the very least. “I’ll toss it up to you. I know climbing up and down that ladder can be a pain in the ass.” She said. Moving to the stall she scooped up the shirt. Folding and rolling it into a cylinder looked back up at him. “Don’t judge me, Matt. I have terrible aim. You ready?”

He nodded and she lobbed the shirt up at him with reasonable accuracy. He caught it easily.

“Nice catch!” She said, without a hint of the sarcasm she’d weaponized only moments before.

“Not a bad throw.”

“Thanks.” She smiled. “Food’ll be on the inside of the stall when you’re ready.”

He nodded and watched as she returned to her morning routine, their exchange only a brief blip in the normal operations of the barn. He removed his jacket and sweater and pulled the t-shirt over his long-sleeved shirt before pulling on his other layers. He glanced down at the Last Chance logo emblazoned across his chest, partially obscured by his jacket. Now he had purpose and place.

He exhaled slowly, the morning air was sharp and made his chest ache, doing nothing to ease the other pain that tweaked and twanged. Then she turned on the radio which hummed below and the other morning sounds of the barn filtered in around him, grounding him in the moment.

Consistency. Repetition. Unchanging and unaltered by the passage of time. _Soothing._ Was the only word he could think of to describe it.

Except she’d deviated from routine this morning. Ramirez had employed sarcasm, she’d giggled, she’d even smiled. People didn’t do any of that around the soldier. _Well._ He amended. People did, it wasn’t normally directed at him.

“Mike! Bill!” The woman’s voice pierced the silence of the ranch. There was an excitement in her voice, masking the weariness he’d seen over the past few days.

“Ramirez.” A gruff, male, voice replied.

There was an exchange between them that he couldn’t quite catch before Ramirez concluded with a  “Play nice gentlemen.”

There was the crunch of gravel that indicated she was walking toward the pasture gate, and that two pairs of footsteps approaching the barn. He watched with bated breath as they entered the barn. _You belong here. Act like you belong here._ He reminded himself. She’d given him a t-shirt. By that logic, he did belong here, which was the only logic that mattered presently.

Two men entered. They were both male, white, stocky, and wearing last chance ranch t-shirts, jeans, and work boots. That was where the similarities ended. One was older than the other, perhaps in his mid to late 60s with a goatee and long grey hair pulled back in a low ponytail, though he couldn’t help but notice, the length did nothing to make up for the fact the top was thinning. The other man was in his mid-30s, hair buzzed short, and was clean shaven. He could also make out an array of burn scars on the man’s hands and arms that peaked out of the collar of his shirt and the older man walked with a slight limp. Veterans. They were both military or former military. They were, however, of no threat to him. Not immediately.

Both men looked up at him at the same time, their eyes running an evaluation of their own. What their findings were he could only guess because their faces revealed nothing. “You Matt?” The older man asked gruffly, voice like gravel in a rock quarry.

“Yes, Sir.”

“See you finally talked Ramirez into fixing the roof.” He said.

“Drafted, actually.”

The older man snorted. “That’s a first for her.” He nodded. “Well. Welcome aboard. I’m Bill, this is Mike.” He motioned to the other man with his head. Mike wasn’t paying attention and instead surveyed the list Ramirez had left critically.

“Whaddya got?” Bill asked, turning to look at the list over Mike’s shoulder.

“Ehhh, the usual, mostly. Muck, troughs, hay for pasture one, some electric issues in the outbuilding. There’s an appointment at 10:30 and then at 1:00 and 3:00.”

“Who do we need to have pulled and ready?”

“Muffin, McSmush and Peachy,” Mike answered.

Bill glanced up at him, “She must like you, Matt. Normally, she gives the greenhorns shit detail.”

He paused like he was mulling something over. “With the state of that roof, it might be _worse_ than shit detail. Tough break, either way, kid.”

“Yes, sir.”

Bill paused, eyeing him. “Pen or service?”

He tensed. Was it obvious? Had he been made. He could feel his palms itch as he mentally plotted his escape route.

“Those are the types she likes to bring on. Army, Vietnam, and then a stint in prison for me. And Mike was Marines, Afghanistan, was it three or four tours?” Bill called to the younger man who was already mucking out stalls.

“Four.” Mike corrected.

“You’re in good company, Son,” Bill said.

He nodded, uncertain of what to say. He was technically both a veteran and a former con, but he wasn’t ready to divulge that information. “Yes, sir.” He managed after a moment.

“Not a sir. Bill’s just fine. Or Davidson.”

“You don’t have to be everyone’s dad Davidson. Just let the guy work on the roof. He’s gonna need all the time he can get on that little project.” Mike cut in. “And when you’re done with the welcome wagon, I’m ankle deep in horse shit if you wanna roll out the wheelbarrow.”

“Yeah yeah.” Bill rolled his eyes.  “Need anything just give a shout.”

He nodded and Bill walked outside. Mike caught his eye and nodded knowingly, but said nothing.

They both returned to work in silence, the only sound between them was the hum off the radio and the noise from their tools. Bill was in and out, exchanging brief bursts of conversations with Mike. Then two more people arrived. Bridget and Jonathan (whom they all referred to as Jonny) arrived an hour and a half later. Thirty minutes later a lanky Hispanic young man named Mitchell who was no more than 20 or so arrived, wearing long-sleeved under his t-shirt, his eyes were vacant and he spoke softly and only to Mike or Ramirez who then translated to the other volunteers. From what he could tell, Davidson was in charge of the volunteers and he doled out to each individual. They all knew one another and chatted amicably as they worked, walking in and out of the barn.

For his part, no one questioned his presence in the loft. Bridget and Jonny had both expressed their excitement that Ramirez was finally getting someone to patch the roof, and Mitchell had nodded but given him a thumbs up. He focused on his work but listened to their chatter.

This was a community how and why it had formed he didn’t know, but at the center of it was the woman. A light seemed to emanate from her as she moved through the group, sharing this light and warmth with those around her. They all seemed to be pulled in by it and reached out to partake in the light she gave. A hand on the shoulder, a touch of the hand, a handshake, a tap on the arm, a hug. They were all here for different reasons, but Ramirez was the reason they had a place at all to come.

He had nearly four dozen roof tiles completed by the time she called for lunch. The group abandoned their present tasks and converged upon the picnic table just outside.

“Matt?” He looked down to see Ramirez standing at the foot of the ladder.

“Ramirez.”

She cracked a smile. “You good?”

He nodded.  

“I’ll bring you some water and Gatorade. It’s getting hot out there, I can’t imagine how it is up top.” She said commented, turning nearly ran into Bill.

“Damn Ramirez, not going to let the guy down for lunch?” Bill came up behind her, with a burrito, and a bottle of water. “Go get lunch. You’ve earned it kid. I got something for the new guy.” He told Ramirez. Bill waited until she was gone before he approached the ladder.

Climbing nimbly, Bill reached the top. Setting the items on the loft floor, leveled his gaze on him. “Ramirez is a good one. One of the few left,” He said shortly. Bill maintained eye contact and something dark crossed the man’s expression.

Ramirez had leveled a similar gaze on him only a few days before. It had been a warning. _No one hurts my people._ Davidson’s expression was a threat. _You hurt her and I kill you._ This was not an idle threat, and he had no doubt that Davidson would, or would do everything in his power, to follow up on his threat should something happen to Ramirez.

“She is.” He agreed after a moment.

This seemed to satisfy the man because he nodded. “Good to have you on board.” And without another word Davidson descended down the ladder and returned outside.

He didn’t take his eyes off Davidson until the man disappeared from view. He would’ve laughed the prospect of that man trying to threaten him, but he understood, and he found that he was almost  _ relieved _ . It was good to see that someone had some sense, that someone was looking out for her, that someone around her could sense that he was dangerous. What Davidson would do with this information and how Ramirez would receive it was something else altogether.

 

***

 

Maggie watched as Bill walked from the barn and back toward the picnic table. Something was up. He’d been acting weird all day since she’d told him about Matt working on the roof. Then just a moment ago, when he’d called her kid. He hadn’t called her kid in a damn long time. Like, since she almost knocked his teeth out for it almost six years ago. Something was bothering the man, and she was going to get to the bottom of it. “Bill. Did you get my electrical issue sorted?” She asked, pulling off her work gloves as she approached.

Bill looked up at her, surprise flashing on his face. “Wanna see?” He asked uncertainly.

“Yeah.” She nodded.

“Lead the way boss.”

She walked over to the outbuilding, Bill following behind her. “In here?” She asked motioning to the interior. 

Bill nodded wordlessly and they both entered the outbuilding, Maggie turned on the light, closing and locking the door behind her. 

“I take it this isn’t about the electrical issue,” Bill said dryly.

“What’s going on, Bill?” She asked.

“Where’d you dig that one up, Ramirez?” He asked, going and sitting down on the bench.

_ Oh jeezus.  _ They were going to do this? Right now? This was bound to happen eventually, might as well get it over with now. “I understand that you’re concerned Bill, but believe it or not, the guy in my barn isn’t my biggest problem right now.” 

“Christ, Ramirez, you can’t take in every starved stray that stumbles into your barn.” Bill shook his head.

“Seems a little hypocritical, William.” She said dryly. “All things considered.”

“That was different.”

“Because it was you? What makes Matt any different than you?”

“You weren’t the only one out here.”

“Bill. Matt is harmless. He’s had more than ample opportunity to hurt me and hasn’t.”

“He’s dangerous.”

“Based on what? You’re dangerous, Mike’s dangerous, Mitchell’s dangerous, Mr. McSmush is dangerous.”

“Now you’re being stubborn, Ramirez.”

“What do you want me to do Bill?” She snapped. “Call the cops? What’s that going to do for the poor bastard? Or me? Or anyone? He showed up in my barn a few nights ago and then decided to patch my roof, pro-bono.  _ Real  _ dangerous, scary shit, Bill.”  Maggie drawled.

“You tell Wilson?”

Maggie didn’t say anything, she flexed her hands, taking everything she had not to take a swing at him. She wouldn’t, but she wanted to. 

“Have you?” He pushed.

“I’m here, Wilson isn’t. He  _ doesn’t _ get say in what I do here now.” She said, her voice low. 

“Mags-”

“No, Bill. Stop.” She cut him off.

“If this is about money, we can fundraise. We can get the money together for the roof. You don’t have to get the vagrant to fix the roof for you. There are social services for cases like him. We can help him, but you can’t do it alone,” Bill said gently. “You can’t save the world, not by yourself.”

Maggie nodded, leaning against the wall, saying nothing. She wasn’t trying to save the world. The world could burn for all she cared. She just wanted to keep her ranch, her clients, her volunteers, and her house afloat and operating. She wanted to feel well rested. She wanted a break from feeling like she was at the end of her rope. 

“What do you need?”

“A stiff drink and a massage.” She said through a strangled sigh, massaging her forehead with her fingertips. “Neither of which I might add you are qualified to give out.”

“I wasn’t going to go there, Ramirez.” Bill chuckled, rising to his feet, crossed the small outbuilding, and clapped her on the shoulder. “You have a big heart. That’s what we all love about you. What Underdahl and Wilson loved about you. I don’t want to see you get hurt because of it.”

Maggie surveyed him a moment before nodding. “I appreciate your concern Bill, but trust me.” She didn’t know how to finish that. She didn’t have a plan. She didn’t have the energy to come up with a plan. She just had to ask Bill, ask all of her volunteers and clients to trust that she would get them through this. She could barely keep a roof over her horses' heads never mind one over her own.

“Okay.” Bill nodded, checking his watch. “You have an appointment in ten. You should probably eat something before then.” He unlocked the door and opened it, walking outside. 

Maggie closed the door behind him and leaned against it. She could feel her shoulder sag. She blinked and reached for the chain around her neck. She ran her finger through the larger of the two gold bands and sighed.  _ No time to feel sorry for yourself.  _ She had work to do. 

The rest of the afternoon proceeded without incident, and around five o’clock the last vehicle pulled from the drive and out onto the main road. Maggie stood and waved them off. As the sound of the truck faded into the distance the smile seeped from her expression. Sighing she rubbed her face wearily and toward the barn. There she saw his dark frame standing in the doorway motionless, his eyes surveying her. Cold. Calculating. Maggie shook her head.  _ Does he mean to be so scary? Or is it an amplified bitchy resting face type situation? Does he smile? Every? What would that even look like? _ She didn’t know.

She should really listen to Bill. She  _ knew _ she should listen to Bill. The man  _ was  _ dangerous, she’d seen it in his eyes when she’d first discovered him. There was just no way to get him to social services without it turning into a  _ situation.  _ She wanted to avoid a situation at all costs. 

“Everything all right?” She asked approaching the barn.

“Update on your roof.” He explained shortly.

She nodded and he motioned for her to follow him. Around at the back of the barn was a ladder, an array of old shingles laying on the ground around it. “See you found what you needed.” She commented.

“Your tool shed is very well stocked,” He agreed.

“Up?” She motioned up the ladder.

“After you.”

They climbed onto the roof, walking cautiously toward the spot the old shingles had come from. Rotted. Her heart sank and she glanced up at him. He was watching her, his face stony and unreadable. 

“You  _ really _ should think about getting a professional.” He said shortly.

_ I can’t afford a professional!  _ She screamed silently. It felt like a black hole and any second she would be subjected to spaghettification. Perhaps that was what was already taking place, and she was being stretched so thin that there was hardly anything left of her. Perhaps she had already reached the event horizon and no one else could tell she was being sucked downward. “Thank you for your help. I guess patch what you can. I’ll make a few calls.” She swallowed back the tears that had been threatening to overtake her since her conversation with Bill in the outbuilding.  She turned to go back to the ladder, her foot slipping, she could feel her center of gravity start to pull down and toward the edge of the roof. Then, just as she was getting ready to go over, a hand grabbed her arm and pulled her back.

She looked up into Matt’s face. Still, nothing in his expression. He pulled his hand back as if he’d been burned. “Thanks.” She said.  _ He could’ve let me go over the edge. _ She immediately thought.  _ He should’ve. _ She couldn’t help but add.

“No problem.” He replied flatly.

“Let me know if you need anything. I’ll be around.” Maggie said finally before making her way to the ladder. 

Her head felt like it was spinning. It would be time to bring the horses in for the evening feed, and then once they bedded down she could start looking for someone to fix the roof. She paused, planting her feet firmly on the ground, turned to look out at Ghost’s enclosure. After of course, she did her daily socialization exercises with that spooked creature.  _ Well, ONE of the spooked creatures in this godforsaken place.  _

She should listen to Bill. Take him up on the offer to fundraise for a new roof. But she couldn’t let them know how bad it was, how bad it had gotten. The place was literally rotting from within, and she was all but powerless to prevent its outright collapse. How had it come to this? How had it gotten this bad?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed! Love to hear your thoughts, comment or leave Kudos below!


	6. Chores and Choices

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note: Marvel Owns what it owns, and I own what I own. Let's keep it that way shall we? Please don’t sue me! 
> 
> TW: suicidal ideation; PTSD flashback
> 
> Funny enough this would be roughly considered the "montage" sequence in any given Disney or animated film, although after much discussion this fic has a far more Dreamworks than Disney vibe to it. (recommended listening includes Tarzan and Road to El Dorado soundtracks. Yanno, despite the dark themes)

            He watched her descend the ladder and then much later return to the farmhouse after the evening feed had been completed. He was starting to get a clearer picture of what was going on. She wasn’t an idiot, or oblivious to the danger that he posed. She wasn’t blind to it there was no way she could be. The expression Davidson’s face told him that the man knew he was dangerous, and he wasn’t likely to keep that to himself. She wasn’t an idiot she was desperate. The near-paralyzing fear that had come over her when he’d told her not once but twice that she needed to get a professional to look at the roof, the well-used tools that had gone to rust in her toolshed along with the drywall. There was all of the roofing material she would need to repair the barn, the outbuilding, and the main house three times over. She was alone out here, but she hadn’t always been. And now she was at her wit's end, and she was desperate. Desperate enough to ask for his help when she knew, or at the very least had a strong suspicion that he was dangerous. Desperate enough where a leaky roof was more dire than falling from that roof.

            It made so much more sense to know that she was desperate rather than acting on some kind of strange wholly altruistic urge. She needed him to fix her roof, and he needed her not to raise an alarm that the Winter Soldier was living in her barn at least until he was able to get his collective shit together long enough to continue north. It was mutually beneficial to both of them. At least that is what he could tell himself to ease some of the guilt that had started to build in the back of his mind. He was endangering these people, with his presence, but so long as he could somehow convince himself that he was _helping_ he could justify laying low here for a little while longer.

            When he finally lost light, he settled down into the fresh hay that had been spread in stall ten. Opening the food that Ramirez had left that morning, his stomach growling, he ate in silence and thought about what he’d seen throughout the day, trying to sort through his muddled thoughts. His head was loud. He was remembering more, the memories were coming in sharper, more defined than before, haunting him in his sleep and in the waking hours now too. He was thinking as both the Soldier and as James Barnes if that was possible.

            What would the Soldier do? Move on. Leave no evidence that he was ever there. He knew that much. But he also knew that he needed supplies, needed to be able to move quickly and without pause, which at the moment was a problem for him. James Barnes? James Barnes, on the other hand, wanted to help. Wanted to help this woman. She’d asked him for his help and had thus far been an invaluable ally. She would be able to secure the proper supplies necessary for whenever he made his move north. Was that James Barnes? Or was that the soldier? Looking to extract the highest value from a given asset before moving on? He didn’t know.

            He fell into a fitful slumber, every noise making him startle from sleep until finally, he woke to the sound of nothing but restless silence in the barn. He rose, blinking at the light streaming through the barn’s loft window, and glanced around. Ramirez wasn’t there. He looked up at the clock. She was late, he could feel it and so could the horses. Their energy reeked of nervousness, and it was putting him on edge.

            Walking from the stall, he slowly proceeded toward the office in one of the rooms off of the main barn. He wasn’t entirely sure what he was looking for, but he had a feeling that he’d know it when he saw it. Opening the door to the office, he stopped. The desk was piled high with envelopes, scraps of papers with various numbers were hung on the board on the wall in front of the desk, very nearly obscured by the envelopes and other unopened mail. Hanging on the wall beside the cork board was a photo of Ramirez with a man: white, lanky, with sandy hair. They were standing side by side, the sign for Last Chance Ranch behind them. The man, who was wearing aviator sunglasses, was addressing the camera directly, but Ramirez was looking up at him. There was an expression of absolute adoration on her face, a radiance in her eyes. Love. This was Underdahl. This was her husband.

            _She_ _’s a widow_. He decided. Surveying the photo closer saw that the man, Underdahl, was wearing an Air Force shirt. She’s a military widow. So the ranch for veterans made sense. Or a bit more sense than before. She had/has personal ties to the military, and has a personal reason to want to keep the place going. But why risk it all for one man? _Why risk it all for me?_

 _She doesn_ _’t know she’s risking it all for me._ He reminded himself. She doesn’t know she’s harboring the Winter Soldier. _Mutually beneficial remember?_ But it hadn’t started that way. He’d stumbled into her barn half dead, and she’d been the one to make the decision to involve the authorities. It had only devolved into mutually beneficial whenever he’d discovered the leak in her roof. _So, why hadn’t she called the cops in the first place?_

            He shook his head. He wasn’t in here to delve into her personal matters. He shut the door and went to the next one. This one had all sorts of saddles and other riding equipment. On the wall, there was a whiteboard. Each of the horses’ names was written out, with feeding instructions, their favorite treats, feed restrictions, as well as grooming instructions. Ghost was at the bottom and in addition to all the other information had a number of annotations “Trust + Weight = GEN POP May 31, 2014, or BUST” was written in large block letters.

Along the walls, there were rows of saddles, with each of them labeled. There was also a yolk and harness set up for the Clydesdale, Shadow. Everything was neat, organized, and in its place a stark contrast to the office only feet away.

            “Matt? What are you doing?”

He turned to find her standing behind him, she looked frazzled, her dark eyes heavily ringed with circles and slightly bloodshot, her expression weary, while riddled with confusion, edging on suspicion. “The horses were restless, looking for feed specs.” He answered shortly.

            “Oh.” She said shortly. “You didn’t have to do that. The horses can be big babies when they’re not fed right on time. But I see that you found it.”

            He nodded. “Do you need help?”

            “You’re already helping me with the roof.” She commented removing a large water bottle and a couple burritos from her satchel and extended them to him.

            “Thanks.” He said taking it from her.

            “About yesterday. I’m sorry if Bill came off a little strong. He can be a bit overbearing at times, particularly with new people.”

            “I didn’t notice.”

            “Oh. Oh, that’s good.” She said quickly as if relieved.

            So she knew Davidson was concerned or otherwise unhappy about his presence, enough that Davidson might actually say something to him about it. There was a pause, and Ramirez looked like she was going to say something, but then at the last minute thought better of it. “Guess I should hop to.” She sighed, turning stuck a to-do list on the same rusted nail as she had the day before.

            He nodded and climbed up the ladder resuming his place in the loft, setting the meal she’d brought for him down before climbing out onto the roof. Mike and Bill arrived first, just like the day before, and they nodded their greeting before starting on the extensive to-do list. How had she managed to keep people out of the barn when he’d been delirious? Had she lied? What had she told them? Certainly, a half-dead man in your friend or colleague’s barn would be cause to call the authorities. It would have been reasonable if not advisable for her to call someone, anyone, yet it didn’t appear that she had or would. Unless this was normal for her and for the volunteers of Last Chance Ranch, that she was just known for taking in strays. It seemed like the most likely scenario. The outbuilding with its extra toiletries and nonperishable items was an indication of that. It was likely that none of them had lingered as long as he had.

            It didn’t hurt as much to focus and think, but the rest of his body felt like one gigantic bruise, throbbing and aching, while the buzzing in the prosthesis was only getting worse. There really wasn’t much that could be done about that at the moment. He’d have to suffer through that, or risk being detected and caught. 

            “Hey Matt, you coming to the cookout on Friday?”

            “Pardon?” He looked down to see Mike standing at the foot of the ladder.

           “Ramirez is having a cookout on Friday for the April birthdays, clients and volunteers are all invited,” Mike explained shortly.

            “She hadn’t mentioned anything.” He replied.

            “Well that doesn’t surprise me, she’s been a bit scattered lately. You should come. It’s a good time.” Mike commented. Then without waiting for a response, he walked away.

            Why hadn’t Ramirez invited him, but Mike had thought to? And she did this every month? Well, naturally. She was building a community here. She had cultivated and created this, so of course, she would do this for her volunteers and clients every month. If she put her mind to it, she’d make a dangerous political or social activist. He’d killed people on Hydra’s behalf for less.

            The thought pulled him back, stopping him in his mental wandering. It made his stomach twist and twinge. _That isn’t my life anymore. I don’t want that life._ It was strange to even have the thought of ‘I want.’ Like he had any choice or say in the matter. His only option was to keep out of Hydra’s hands. Everything after that was secondary.

           He winced, his head spinning as a white-hot flash of pain flared at his temples. It was like they knew. Hydra. They were still in his head, and they knew he was fighting them. That nagging itch in the back of his brain yelling, screaming to end it, telling him the only way to silence the voices was to put a bullet in his brain. He wouldn’t listen. He couldn’t. Hydra had found him half dead and retooled him for the purposes before; they would and could do it again, over and over as many times as it took to subdue him permanently.

            He worked until he lost light. It seemed like the only reasonable thing to do. He glanced up and over at the secondary enclosure. Ramirez had flipped on the floodlights and was sitting on top of the bench, legs crossed, watching the gray horse alone in the enclosure. She had already brought in the other horses and completed the evening feeding. Losing light entirely he collected his tools and started down the ladder. He stopped at the sound of Ramirez’s voice. “Hey!”

            “Ma’am.” He turned to face her. She’d twisted, around to face him, and he realized that she must’ve walked into the main house while he wasn’t paying attention. She was wrapped in an embroidered shawl, and her hair was down, and it streamed in long dark waves, midway down her back her satchel sat beside her.

            “And we’d been doing so well.” She cracked a small smile. His expression must’ve conveyed confusion because she added. “You called me Ramirez earlier, we were making progress.”

            “Right," he said dryly.

            “I brought you dinner,” She motioned to the satchel. “And I’m eating mine if you’d like to join me.”

            An invitation? She knew she was dangerous, Davidson had told her as much, she knew he was, she was just desperate, so she was willing to overlook it. The question then became. Why? Why take the risk, aside from sheer desperation of it all. She wouldn’t risk her life, livelihood, and the safety of her clients and friends for a bit of pro-bono carpentry, would she? Though if she was willing to do so, she was far more cold-blooded than he would begin to give her credit for. But that wasn’t it. That wasn’t it at all.

            The woman looked him up and down uncertainly, trying to figure out why he was just standing there. Why am I just standing here? He reflected.

            He watched as she opened her satchel, and removed a thermos and a plastic bag with tortillas inside. “Calibasita.” She said shortly, extending both items to him.

            “What?”

            “Squash and pork stew.” She explained quickly.

            “Oh.” He nodded crossing the distance between them took the items from her.  

            Glancing down he saw that there was a crumpled protein bar wrapper beside her, but there was no other indication of the ‘meal’ she’d said she was eating. Then, for a reason he couldn’t quite explain, he sat down beside her on the picnic bench. The woman said nothing, but there was an air of satisfaction to her expression.

            Mike had said she was a little scatter brained recently. Was it because of him? He licked his lips as he thought through what he wanted to say. “Mike mentioned something about a cookout.” He said slowly.

            “Oh. Shit. Yeah. I totally blanked on that; Friday evening, hotdogs, hamburgers, non-alcoholic beverages, you’re welcome to join if you’d like.” Unlike with Mike, there was a level of expectation to her tone. She wanted to know what his plans where, if he planned on being around that long. He didn’t know. He knew he couldn’t stay any longer than absolutely necessary, which was contingent about how his brain reacted to prolonged time away from Hydra and the roof.

            “I appreciate the offer.” He said finally.

            That seemed to satisfy her because she nodded. A cold gust of wind blew around them, and she drew the shawl closer to her. It was heavily embroidered with flowers in bright colored that clashed with the rest of her attire: rubber boots, faded, tattered jeans, and a plaid button-down flannel rolled up to her elbows. She was rolling a pencil between her palms, chewing on the inside of her mouth, expression pinched in concentration.

            He unscrewed the lid to the thermos and frowned. The scent wafting up, conflicting what his brain was expecting. Bringing the thermos to his nose, sniffed it experimentally before pouring some into the thermos lid and taking a sip, the taste of chocolate and the slightest hint of chili burning his tongue. Hot chocolate?       He poured more into the lid, cupping it in both hands, inhaled the warm vapors the smell of chocolate, cinnamon and again the chili. It had been a while since he’d had anything this sweet. He took another sip, and the warm filed him, pooling in his stomach and settled in his chest.

            “How’s it?” She asked, though her tone was distant.

            “The squash stew?”

            “Yeah? Why-” She cut herself off as she turned to face him. “Oh shit. Sorry.” She rushed, turning back to the satchel and removed an identical thermos and set it down beside the one he’d opened with hot chocolate in it.

            He wasn’t even hungry, his body was used to surviving on far few calories. But the hot chocolate, it was something different, something that he hadn’t in a very very long time. His body remembered it, remembered that it was comforting, soothing, and even though the chili made his tongue burn, he took another sip.

            “You don’t mind the Chili?” She asked uncertainly. Taking the open thermos poured some in her mug.

            “No.”

            “I mean your stomach. I know chili can do terrible things to sensitive stomachs.”

            “Oh.” He hadn’t thought about it, and he paused to take stock. He hadn’t actually had to think about his stomach all day. It seemed to have settled. “No.” He repeated.

            “Glad to hear it.” She nodded, taking a sip from her own mug, before looking back down at the journal open in her lap and making a few annotations.

            He finished the hot chocolate and opened the squash stew pouring some into the bowl. He heard the rustle of plastic and looked down to see that she’d pushed plastic wrapped single-use utensils across the bench between them. “Thanks.” He mumbled, taking the utensils, unwrapped them and started eating in silence.

            She didn’t ask questions or watch him eat. So far as he could tell she was in her own world, working on something in the notebook in front of her. She scribbled something in her journal and closed it was a snap. She gathered up her hair, winding it in a loose bun and stuck the pencil through the mass to secure it. Then the woman’s hands went to the chain around her neck, fiddling absently with the two gold bands a moment.

            Wedding bands? He couldn’t help but think of the photograph back in the office, almost completely obscured the by the pile of envelopes. She had been smiling, really smiling, in the photo, and had a radiance about her that was all but completely gone now. Was her husband the reason she was doing this? Was she carrying on for him? How long had it been since he’d died? What had the ranch been like before he had died? Was that why she was so desperate to pretend that nothing was wrong? His mind spun with the questions that he wanted to ask. _It’s not my place. You don’t have any business here other than finishing the roof._

            Unprompted, she dropped her hands to the side and rose. Climbing down from the picnic bench she approached the fence. The horse picked up his head, watching her warily as she stepped between the fence railings, and entered the enclosure. He said nothing, watching intently as she marched purposefully around the fence perimeter, pulling the shawl closer to her as a gust of wind blew around them.

            He finished off the squash and pork stew, his eyes never leaving the woman and the massive animal she was walking around. He’d heard some of the volunteers and Ramirez talking about this horse. Ghost is what they had called him. Suzanne had mentioned him too. The woman was working on socializing him, he’d been abused and had been massively underweight when Suzanne had brought him to her. Why? Why did she care? Why did she want to do any of this?

            Ramirez walked the perimeter of the fence, talking indistinctly in soothing tones to the horse, in Spanish and then in English, and then in Spanish again. Her eyes focused on the massive animal.

            _It could kill her if it wanted to._ He couldn’t help but think. She was a tenth of its weight and size. It would be easy, almost effortless for the creature yet she walked with confidence and ease, offering words of comfort and encouragement to the massive animal.

            Why was she willing to risk her life to help this creature? What was in it for her? What could she possibly gain? He stopped himself. That line of questioning was dangerous. It was the same line of questioning that applied to him. Why was she helping him, and why did she seem to trust him? Her volunteers had earned her trust, there had probably been an application and a rigorous screening process. He’d just stumbled into her barn half dead, yet she’d taken him without question or apparent hesitation. Yes, she was desperate, or at least that’s what he’d decided. Regardless of all of that, he was the beneficiary of this woman’s misplace kindness and generosity. There has to be an angle. There is always an angle, a motive. _Well, you’re fixing her roof, aren’t you?_ Yes, but that had been a cascade of circumstances that had led to this particular arrangement. She couldn’t have possibly planned for this. _Why is she doing this?_ He exhaled, sharply, shaking his head, which just made his head spin. _Why protect me?_

            Wordlessly he returned the thermos to her satchel, collected the garbage from the utensils and walked back toward the barn. When he looked back, she was still talking to Ghost, walking around the enclosure alone.

            The next day came, much like the ones before, volunteers in and out of the barn, clients at various intervals and he was up on the roof looking down over it. It unusual having people move around him with ease, without worry or care about what he was doing, an invisibility of sorts he’d utilized as the Soldier, but was now using to observe the inhabitants of the ranch.

            A mid-afternoon shower drove him inside and the last of the volunteers to their cars. Covering the roof with a tarp, he retreated to the interior of the barn. Ramirez came through only moments later through the barn doors with Shadow the Clydesdale and Duchess Cookie Cake the black and white speckled regular-sized horse, all drenched. She laughed, leading both horses to the center of the barn, which had a tie off, and went to the radio, adjusting the station, Tejano filled the barns with its crackling tones.

            Ramirez looked up at him in the loft and smiled, water dripping from her hair and face. “How’s the roof going?”

            “Slowly.”

            “Yeah. I bet with this rain.” She agreed with a nod. “So this is a strange thing to ask all things considered, but you ever been around horses before, Matt?”

            It was a strange thing to ask, all things considered, he’d been lodging with and around horses for over a week now. “No.” He shook his head. That was unless he counted the time at Coney Island he’d seen Brooklyn Supreme. _Or that time that one time when you were six and you wanted to be Zorro and ride around on Tornado._ He blinked. It was a strange thing to remember. Such random and irrelevant thought to have. Out of all of the things coming back, that one factoid. _I wanted to be Zorro when I was a little kid?_ He couldn’t quite wrap his mind around it. A masked vigilante, he would’ve laughed at the irony if it wasn’t leaving a bitter taste at the back of his throat.

            Her voice pulled him from his thoughts. “Wanna learn some of the basics while we wait out this rain?” She asked.

            He hesitated. What was he going to say, No? Well, he could. There was nothing about this interaction that indicated Ramirez would be upset or otherwise offended if he declined. It just seemed...rude. Rude? The fact that politeness and manners were coming into this at all was laughable. Almost. He could hear a stern voice with a matching careworn face, not too unlike the Suzanne’s, telling him to sit up straight and say please and thank you.

            “I could use an extra pair of hands. Shadow and the Duchess need to be shod.” She said. “I’ll show you how to pick out hooves and then give them both a good brushing.” Ramirez paused, “I’ll be right back.”

He watched her go into the tack room, and there was the sound of wheels rolling on the wood floors, which stopped with a resounding crash followed by swearing. She wasn’t going to ask for his help, she hadn’t even really asked for his help with the horses or the roof, but she obviously needed it.

            _Choice._ That’s what she’d said the other day. _Choosing to be a good person or a bad person._ Hopping down from the loft, walked to the tack room where the large wheeled cart had fallen over, the trays and their contents spread out on the floor. Ramirez was on her hands and knees, trying to collect the horseshoes and tools that had scattered.

            “Let me help with that.” He mumbled, moving into the tack room, and the cart.

            “Oh no you don’t- it’s really...heavy” She stammered out as he lifted the cart easily, setting it upright. Ramirez glanced between him and the cart, opening and closing her mouth. “Than-thanks.” She managed after a moment picking up what had been dropped, returned it to their respective places. Standing up, she dusted herself off, breathlessly. “Thank you. Really. That would’ve been too heavy for me to lift on my own fully loaded down like that.”

            “Oh. It’s fine.”

            “Do you think you could help me roll this out there?” She asked meekly. There was an edge, jagged and rough, to her voice, as if she was ready to cry.

            He nodded, and She stepped back. Wordlessly he moved the rolling cart out to where she’d tied the horses, watching her body language relax slightly, the tension from her shoulders easing. “Just between them, please.” She interjected quickly, and he adjusted in response.

            When the cart was in place, he moved away and watched as she opened and closed the drawers, returning all of the spilled contents back in their place. Finally, she opened the top drawer and removed a metal hook (that looked more akin to a torture device than a farm implement) and a round metal brush, setting them atop the cart. She didn’t look at him, didn’t address him, or ask him if he would help. She just picked up the metal hook and moved to Shadow. The horse’s back was easily a head taller than her, but she picked up one of the massive hoofs, stepped over it straddling it between her thighs. Then she took the metal hook and started scraping the bottom. All in a single fluid, sure motion.

            “All right city slicker, Horses 101.” She began. “Horses are prey animals. So that means their eyes are set on the side of their heads; it gives them pretty good vision to spot potential predators. However, this does mean that they have two massive blind spots...” She continued talking about how to approach the animal, what to do and what not to do. It was clear from her tone that she on autopilot. Her voice was chipper to the point of being almost brittle, but he found that he was fascinated. Not specifically the information she was giving him, that was all self-explanatory, but the authority with which she spoke.  

            He bent his focus to the woman’s motions as she set the massive hoof down.

            “So what are you doing?” He asked, watching as she moved to the next hoof.

            “Well come here, and I’ll show you.” She motioned for him to stand over her shoulder. When he’d done as instructed, she continued. “So the hoof for a horse is rather like human fingernails, it grows and has to be trimmed. Much like fingernails, the hoof is also brittle and so to prevent the hoof from cracking, we put metal shoes on the bottom. Now, because most horses spend their time in some kind of soft, muddy, grassy combo, they get all sorts of stuff compacted against the sole of their feet. What this hook does is scrape out and make sure there isn’t anything stuck to the bottom.” She explained, “You want to avoid the frog, but the sole you can scrape out.” She explained motioning to the various parts of the hoof with the end of the hook. “Here. Give it a try.” She extended the pick to him.

            He took it in his hand, weighing the implement in his hand a moment before taking the metal hook to the horse’s hoof. He slowly picked out the hoof, minding the frog.

            When he finished, he glanced up at her. She wore a proud expression. “Very good.” She commented. “You think you can manage the other ones? So I can get onto the business of shoeing.”

            He nodded, and she let go of the massive hoof. “Then when you’re done with that you can brush them both down.” She commented as she moved to the rolling rack of tools, opening and closing various drawers.

            She’d said it so casually he almost hadn’t realized it was an instruction, rather than a suggestion. “Can I?” He countered dryly.

            “If you want.” She shrugged. “Small stokes in little circles gets all the dirt out.”

            She knew he was going to heed her instruction. It wasn’t a trick, not as such, but it was very clever. It wasn’t exactly the same as the Tom Sawyer whitewashing gambit, but it was a way to get people to help without actually ever asking them. There wasn’t anything that was forcing him to comply. He felt compelled to help. He _wanted_ to help because while she was roping him into her chores, he did have a choice. He had a choice without repercussions, good or bad. _A choice._

            The buzzing in the prosthesis intensified and he dropped the pick, wincing.

            “You okay?” She asked.

            “Fine.” He bit out shortly, flexing the limb scooping up the pick with his right hand, went to the next hoof cleaning it out with ease. Continued to the last hoof. The massive animal moved and responded to his touch, just as it had to Ramirez.

            “Same thing with the other?’ He asked

She had just pulled out the first shoe and was now working the hoof with a rasp. She was humming along to the music; her focus bent on what she was doing. She moved deftly and with ease, again despite the animal’s size was in total control of the situation.

            She hadn’t heard him, which meant she wasn’t watching him or paying attention. He glanced down at the pick. His mind immediately ran through exactly what he could do with an implement like that. His stomach turned. _You’re still a weapon, even if she doesn’t see it. It just means you’re a very well disguised weapon._

            Shaking his head, he started toward the other horse and it jerked away.

            “Horses can tell the type of energy you’re bringing to the interaction.” She commented, without looking up. “Be aware of how you’re approaching the horse, the energy and intent you’re bringing into the interaction. Mindfulness is key.” She coaxed. “Take a deep breath and try again.”

            He glanced over at her. She hadn’t skipped a beat, hadn’t even glanced up. Was she giving him an impromptu session, like he was one of her clients? Like he was James or any of the others? His mind wandered to what he’d seen written under Ghost’s name on the whiteboard. _Trust + Weight = Gen POP. Or BUST!_ Was she doing the same thing to him? Trying to gain his trust so she could get him help? Was that her long term goal? It made about as much sense as anything else.

            He exhaled focusing on the task at hand and made another attempt to approach the horse again. This time he was able to get close enough to pick out the hooves.

            When he was done with that, he retrieved the brush and began brushing down Duchess Cookie Cake, which gave him a good vantage point to watch her as she worked. She was shaping a second horse show, now beating it with a hammer into the correct shape for the Clydesdale’s massive hoof.

            “Blacksmith?” He asked.

            “Ferrier.” She replied. “Shoeing horses is part of the gig, and I’ve been around it all my life. Which is why I make it look easy.” She added with a smirk.

            “Ah.” And she was making it look easy.

            “I mean I took some metal working, shop classes, and did a semester’s worth of welding.”

            “But not carpentry?” He asked wryly.

            She paused, stopping what she was doing, and met his gaze. “No. Not carpentry. Never got around to it.” She said returning to her work, “What about you? Jack of all trades, but master of none?”

            “Better than a master of one.” He concluded.

            She chuckled to herself, “That is how it goes isn’t it.” She paused, “I’m about halfway done with Shadow. If you wanna brush the old girl out, she would appreciate it.”

            They continued their work in silence, and he was finished with his part before she finished shoeing the Duchess.

            “Sounds like the rain’s stopped. It should be clear for the rest of the day.” She commented. “If you could lead shadow back out to the pasture, Duchess Cookie Cake and I aren’t quite done. Bring the lead line back with you.”

            Again there was the instruction phrased like a suggestion. Was that her way of getting around outright asking? Was that how she’d managed to outsmart her pride and sheer stubbornness to allow herself to ask for help? He didn’t know but wordlessly led the massive animal out toward the pasture. The grass was soaked, and the air was damp, but it looked like the clouds were burning off for the day just as Ramirez had said. He swung open the gate and unclipped the lead line. Closing the gate after the horse, he froze at the sound of a voice behind him. “Hey!”

            He turned to see an African-American man approaching him. “Can I help you?” He asked curtly.

            “You must be the new guy, Matt right?” The man stopped and extended his left hand, the right t-shirt sleeve tied in a tidy bow. “James.” He took the man’s left hand and shook it. “Pleasure to meet you. Word is your helping Ramirez fix the barn roof.” James said, letting go of his hand.

            “Yes,” He answered shortly watching James closely. It was the man from the barn a few days earlier, but there was something familiar about him, something that he couldn’t quite place on the timeline, something from _before_.

            “Is she around?”

            He blinked, the man’s voice bringing him back to present. “Pardon?”

            “James?” Ramirez appeared in the barn doorway and proceeded out toward them. “I thought I heard your voice. What’s going on?” She walked toward them, concern and worry on her expression.

            “Oh. Nothing bad. Out for a drive with my girls. Molly wanted to see if the horses were out.”

            “Good. Good.” She exhaled, a warm smile spreading over her. “McSmush is all wet from the rain earlier. But the Duchess just had a spa day. Would that work?”

            “Absolutely,” James nodded. He motioned to the car, and an African woman with long braids climbed out followed by a young girl with an Afro. “Nice to meet you, Matt, see you around," James called as Ramirez led him toward the barn to greet the two women.

            He said nothing, an icy chasm opening in his stomach. He climbed the ladder, even as the gnawing intensified. He remembered the man from somewhere.

            The whole family was in the barn below, Ramirez talking them through how to saddle a horse. They were going for a ride.

            He blinked, trying to focus on what he was doing. He was up high on the roof now, looking down at the ranch below. _It’s a figment of your imagination. Focus. Focus!_ He pulled the tarp off the roof and watched as it floated down to the wet grass, leaving the gaping hole in the roof exposed.

            There was a burst of laughter from Ramirez, the man’s wife, and Molly, his daughter.

            He exhaled a shaking breath, squeezing his eyes shut. The wind picked up, and the air felt dry in his lungs, dryer than it had been even before the rain shower earlier in the afternoon. He could feel himself slipping away. Slipping into the _before._ He opened his eyes, there were footsteps down below and he watched as James and James’s family along with Ramirez walked with the black and white horse down toward the round pen.

            Only it wasn’t _exactly_ right. The wind blew and it was dry and hot. The open area below him wasn’t grass and mud, it was a dirt and sand streaked road, lined by bombed out buildings riddled with bullet holes on either side. He was up high, up higher than just on top of a barn. He was dug in on a rooftop overlooking the American Marines on patrol. They were guarding a Humvee and a tank as they went through the center of town. The initial sweep had missed him, so he didn’t have much time. He leveled his gaze on the security detail, his mission to destroy the tank and make the American forces scatter. He looked through the scope, James looked up at him, making eye contact.

            He blinked, glancing around. Molly was laughing, she and James’s wife were both on top of the horse while Ramirez and James were leading the horse around the round enclosure.

            _Get off the Roof. Seek cover you’ve been compromised._ His brain screamed. He scrabbled down from the roof through the loft roof and retreated to the far corner of the stall. He’d pulled the trigger, he was the reason James was here at the Ranch. His head pounded, practically screaming, though what it was screaming he couldn’t make out. The four walls of the stall closed around him, providing him cover and comfort, almost like the cell that Hydra had placed him in between missions. _Safe. You’re safe._ He tried to tell himself, but it was drowned out by the screaming. His screaming, the screaming of the people down below in the street, the other screams that blurred and warped together into a single voice. _End it. End it before it’s too late. You owe these people that._

            But he was helping, wasn’t he? He was helping her, with the roof, that had to count for something, didn’t it?

            No. It didn’t. It didn’t matter, none of it did. Not why she was doing all of this, not why she was desperate, not why she hadn’t called the cops on him when he’d stumbled into her barn. He was the reason all of these people were here. The Soldier was responsible for the wars that had broken these men and killed Ramirez’s husband and brought them to this desperate state, had brought him to this state. He didn’t get a choice, he didn’t deserve a choice, he had only one path make a clean escape and keep moving before he could harm these people any more than he already had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, leave kudos, comments, or subscribe! Thanks for reading! This chapter was a bear, but necessary to get us where we're going! We're also officially half way through this part of the larger series (those of you following along will note I did originally have 13 chapters, but nope, we're down to 12 now)
> 
> Next time buckle up for more Ramirez pain and a little more of her back story.


	7. Soldier Keep On Marching Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note: Marvel owns what it owns, and I own what I own, let's keep it that way shall we? Don’t Sue me!
> 
> TW: mention of suicide, mention of death, suicidal ideation, disordered eating, 
> 
> This is, I would argue, the heaviest darkest chapter of the entire fic thus far, please proceed with caution.
> 
> Recommended Listening: “Soldier” by Fleurie, “The War was in Color” by Carbon Leaf, and “One” by Metallica

Something was wrong with Matt. Maggie had watched the interaction between him and James, and when James had come into the barn, Matt had seemed to be okay. One minute he’d been on the roof working like usual, then the next he’d disappeared. She hadn’t noted the exact time or what the circumstances of his departure from the roof had been, she’d been more than a little occupied with James, Steph, and Molly.

It had been a rough few years for James and his family, so when he’d pulled into the drive unannounced, she’d been more than a little concerned. Thankfully it hadn’t been anything pressing. They’d pulled Molly from school for a mental health day, and had gone for a drive. When they’d ended up in the area their cellphones had lost signal, and so they’d stopped by unannounced. All of that was fine. In fact, she encouraged clients and volunteers to stop by. There were always things that they could do to help out if they wanted, and the horses could always use more face time with people.

The problem at the moment was Scary Matt. Maggie knew she shouldn’t call him that, but he was scary. Only, over the past few days, they’d been getting better. He’d started calling her Ramirez rather than ma’am or nothing at all. They’d even had what could be classified as a conversation in the barn. Progress was being made.

_Only he_ _’s not your client, and you’re playing with fire, you know he’s dangerous._

She knew that. On a basic fundamental level she knew the man was dangerous, but underneath it all there was something save-able. Why else would he volunteer to fix her roof, or stop Roberts from assaulting her? She’d also been drawing him out of his shell; he hadn’t outright rejected the idea of attending the cookout. That was certainly something!

_You can’t save them all. You can’t even save the ranch._

It was an ugly voice in the back of her head, but it wasn’t exactly wrong. But maybe this was the start of something good? What if Scary Matt fixing the roof was the break she needed to get everything back on course? What if he has some wealthy relatives who would be grateful she’d found and nursed their brother/son/husband/father/nephew combination back to health and restored him to them? It was unlikely and stupid, but that would be one hell of a thing, wouldn’t it?

To be honest, he probably wasn’t lying about not having anyone to contact. It wasn’t like she had an overabundant emergency contact list. No a next of kin to speak of. She wasn’t even sure Wilson would pick up the phone if she were in trouble, or if he’d just let it go to voicemail.

Maggie shook her head. It was just her and Matt, and she’d just have to make due. She snorted. Of all the fake names, he’d chosen Matt. It took him a second to answer when she called him that, though to his credit it was the name he’d supplied to Suzanne and she’d probably caught the poor guy off guard.

 _Speaking of catching off guard._ Maggie paused outside the barn. She needed to see what had happened to the best pro bono carpenter to ever stumble into her barn. Maggie slowly entered the barn she peering in headfirst. She glanced around. She didn’t see or hear anything, so she proceeded with caution toward stall ten.

_You should call back up Mags. This is dangerous._

She stopped just outside the stall peering in she found Matt huddled on the ground, much as she had when she’d found him that first morning. But he was muttering, in a language, she couldn’t quite make out.

 _Shit._ She sunk down outside the stall. He was going through something, though without pre-screening diagnostics, discussion, corroborating diagnoses and the like she couldn’t know precisely what was going on, which could be dangerous for both of them.

_Talk to him Mags, let him know he’s not alone._

Maggie sighed, taking a deep breath. What was she going to say? What could she say? She didn’t know him; he wasn’t one of her clients. This could end very badly if she didn’t proceed with caution but _would_ end very badly if she didn’t do anything at all.

"Hey, Matt.” She faltered. “It’s me, Maggie Ramirez.” She began slowly. “I know you’re going through something, I don’t know what exactly, but I want you to know you’re not alone. I’m here with you, and I’m not going anywhere. Focus on my voice, and put your feet on the barn floor.” She paused, as she heard him adjust, his heavy boots setting firmly on the floor of the barn. “Do you smell it? The hay? And it’s slightly damp because of the leaks in the roof, and it smells like animals because of the horses.” Maggie continued. “The horses would be the first ones to let us know if there was any danger since they’re prey animals. I’m not going to let anything happen to you while you’re here. I’m going to keep you safe. You’ve helped me out quite a bit since you’ve shown up, first with Roberts and now with the roof. I appreciate it, we all appreciate it.” She chewed her lip. “You see what’s what this place is. It’s a haven, a little quiet, safe place away from all the bad shit out there, reminding you that you’re not alone. You’re not alone. Okay?”

 Maggie continued talking until she heard his muttering subside and his breathing relax. The barn fell silent. She exhaled slowly, rising to her feet. “I’ll be around in a little while to check on you, I have some things to take care of.”

She walked out into the fresh air and toward the pasture gate, leaving the barn and barn dweller behind. _All in a day’s work._ She leaned against the pasture fence. _I may not be able to save the world, but I can take care of my people._ It was a small sort of comfort. She couldn’t do much well in this world, but she could take care of her people. Maggie paused at the thought and then shook her head, chuckling to herself, “Congrats Matt, like it or not you’re my people now.”

***

He lay there in the straw, too exhausted to move. Her voice had pulled him out of it. He wasn’t entirely sure how, but her voice had cut through the noise of his mind and pulled him out.

Was this how she was with everyone? Was this why they protected her so ferociously?

He lifted himself into a sitting position, wincing as his head ached, the mechanisms in the prosthesis whirling and grinding as he moved. He felt fragile, brittle almost as if everything he’d been piecing together was made of glass, and now someone had just tossed a brick through the window and shattered the whole thing. Was it a Hydra failsafe? Was it one of their tricks to incapacitate him? No. It was too random. It wasn’t something that they could effectively weaponize. This was his brain short-circuiting. This was self-sabotage. It wasn’t something he could afford

The memories flooded forth, but this time he was ready for them. James, the convoy, the explosion, the panic and screaming, and blood, that was him. He’d done that. It all felt like a bad dream. Only, it wasn’t a dream. It was much, much worse than that.

He exhaled, blinking slowly, head feeling fuzzy as he tried to remember how he’d gotten from the roof to the stall, and then what exactly it was that Ramirez had told him. There was a blank spot, a hole, or rather another hole in the fragile patchwork of his mind. Then, of course, there was a question of what he _knew_ versus what he _remembered._ The Smithsonian had been tremendously useful in helping with the former while doing nothing but muddy the latter. James Barnes had been born in 1917 to George and Winfred Barnes and died in 1945. James Barnes had three sisters, Abigail, Rachel, and Rebecca Barnes, one of whom was still alive. James Barnes had been a straight ‘A’ student and a gifted athlete. James Barnes was the best friend of Steve Rogers since childhood. He knew that, from the museum exhibits. He’d spent hours reading through the descriptions on the artifacts and listening to the museum’s audio and video recordings on the adventures of Captain America and his Howling Commandoes.

He knew all of that, but he didn’t _remember_ any of it. He _knew_ Steven Rogers. He knew Steve, small, sickly, frail, with a fighting unrelenting desire to do the right thing. He knew Steve and something inside of him had known enough to recognize that he had to protect him. He _knew_ Steven Rogers in the same way that he _knew_ Ramirez had been talking to him just a moment ago. His brain was just fuzzy enough that when he tried to focus on the specifics it gave him a headache. It was more like opening and closing your eyes really fast, you got the shape of the thing but not much more, a word, a name, a taste, something on the tip of you tongue just beyond enunciation.

He leaned back in the hay, squeezing his eyes shut. He needed a way to sort through all of it, what he knew, what he didn’t know, what he remembered, what he wanted to forget. He couldn’t trust his brain to organize and process anything more complicated than immediate stimuli and input. He couldn’t afford to slip into an old memory while he was on the run, not when he ran the risk of becoming incapacitated because of it. It was his responsibility to keep out of Hydra’s hands. He’d already hurt too many people. He wouldn’t hurt anyone else, not if he could help it.

“Hey.” Ramirez’s voice startled him from his light doze, and he jerked into upright positing wincing as he did. “Sorry.” She lowered her voice even more. “How are you feeling?”

He surveyed her expression, which was creased with concern, and suddenly he felt shame rise in his chest. “Fine. Thanks.” He mumbled, lowering his gaze.

“I’ve brought you something to eat. Something light.” She explained, slowly lowering a plastic bag onto the floor of the stall. “Let me know if I can get you anything.”

“Scrap paper.” It slipped out before he even registered he was saying it. He winced again.

“Yeah, I can do that. Do you have a writing implement?”

“It’s...” He faltered. “It’s nothing. You don’t have to worry about it.”

Ramirez nodded, and for a moment it looked like she was going to push the issue before she responded with, “Try to get some rest.”

 She turned away and continued with the evening chores without another word. He snagged the bag and dragged it to him. There was a container of fruit salad, peanuts, some jerky, and some water, and he ate hungrily before collapsing back in the straw.

He didn’t dream, for which he was thankful. He wasn’t even sure if he slept, as he drifted in and out of consciousness, the barn ceiling blurring in and out of focus. Too exhausted to do anything productive but too on edge to ease into sleep.

“Hey, Matt?”

He jerked into an upright position and found that one again Ramirez was standing at the stall door. Why hadn’t he heard her come in? “Ma’am?” He managed weakly.

“Mike and Bill are due any minute.” She explained gently, mercifully saying nothing about the fact that he’d just called her ma’am.

“What time is it?”

“9:30.”

“Shit.” He mumbled, blinking as he staggered to his feet.

“You’re all right. Figured you wouldn’t appreciate them startling you.” She stepped out of the way as he started for the stall door.

“I need to take care of your roof.” He said.

"Go wash up first. I made breakfast burritos.” Ramirez commented, before walking back outside.

He went to the outbuilding and pulled off his gloves after locking the door. Washing his face, brushing his teeth, and pulling his hair back before shoving the baseball cap back on, he glanced up in the mirror. It was still jarring, seeing his reflection. Sharing faces with James Barnes. But that didn’t make him “Bucky.” How could he be? How could he be anything more than what Hydra had made him? _Choice. Every choice, every action matters. Our past doesn’t define us, but our choices now and today help shape our tomorrow._ That’s what Ramirez had told James in the barn only a few days ago. _But it can’t apply to me. It shouldn’t._ How could it, after all that he’d done? He was the reason that any of them were here. He’d shaped the century. That’s what Pierce had said.

The sound of Mike and Davidson’s voice pulled him back and rooted him to the present. _Finish the roof, move on, and then you can worry about everything else._

He pulled back on his gloves and returned out into the morning air.

“Oh. Look who’s decided to join us from up on high.” Davidson commented as he approached the picnic bench where Davidson, Mike, and Ramirez were sitting, drinking coffee, a pile of burritos wrapped in foil in the center of the table.

“Ignore him. He’s just being grumpy,” Ramirez interjected.

“Happens when you get old.” Davidson shot back amiably. “So you plan to join us on Friday Matt?”

All eyes turned to him in breathless expectation. Davidson was trying to get a rise out of him, trying to make him commit one way or another. It was a lose-lose scenario regardless of what he said. “If I’m finished with the roof.” He answered finally.

“Jesus, Ramirez. Turn this poor kid into Cinderella over here? Can’t go to the cookout if he doesn’t finish his chores?” Davidson asked turning to Ramirez.

“I dunno? Sounds like a good idea to me for you. I _may_ have to revoke burrito privileges if you don’t get on with what you’re _supposed_ to be doing.” She drawled.

“Damn. Tough break, Bill.” Mike chuckled. “Sit down and join us, Matt. Ramirez’s roof can wait a little longer.” Mike waved him over.

He sat down on the bench, hands shoved in his pockets, watching the back and forth between Davidson and Ramirez.

“Speaking of revoking privileges, Wilson going to grace us with his presence Friday?” Mike interjected as there was a pause in the banter.

The mood at the picnic table got decidedly cooler as Ramirez’s expression hardened. “I wouldn’t _know_ what Sam’s up to, he doesn’t exactly forward me his social calendar.”

“All right, all right.” Mike put up his hands. “Thought I’d ask since he’s an April birthday and all that.”

His brain was fuzzy and working slowly, but the name was familiar like he’d seen it somewhere before recently. _Wilson...Wilson...why is that name familiar? And how is it connected to her?_

 “So when’s your first appointment?” Davidson asked, interrupting his train of thought and bringing him back into the present.

“Oh.” Ramirez looked down checking her phone and frowned. “Huh?”

 “What’s going on?” Davidson questioned.

“Tim. He’s late. That’s really weird. He’s normally pretty punctual,” She answered her brows furrowed.

“You gonna call?” Davidson inquired.

“I’ll give him another ten before I do anything.” She shrugged, flashing a small smile. He could tell it was more to reassure Davidson than anything else.

“I’m sure it’s okay," Davison said, patting her shoulder.

He glanced between Ramirez and Mike as they all went back to their coffee, the tension palpable. Then out of the silence, Ramirez’s phone started to buzz on the table. Snatching up the phone she rose and walked a few feet away before answering. “Last Chance Ranch, Maggie speaking.” She answered in a chirpy nearly singsong voice.

The person on the other end of the line started speaking, and her easy smile seeped from her face and set in a hard grimace. “Yes, this is she.” Ramirez answered glancing up at them, “Yeah just a minute.” She said as she turned and started toward the barn office.

“Let’s go to work.” Davidson told Mike shortly, “Matt, don’t you have a roof to be looking after?” Davidson asked, making the universal shooing motion.

He nodded, grabbing a burrito, walked around the corner to the ladder on the roof and climbed up, his ears focused intently on what was happening on the ground. Something was obviously wrong, but what exactly it was he couldn’t say.

“Hey, Bill. Can you come in here a minute?” Ramirez’s voice pierced the silence. It was pinched and brittle with a slight waver to it.

Davidson entered the office closing the door after him. A few minutes later they both exited. Ramirez went up toward the house without a word, and Davidson went to Mike talking in low tones. He shook his head and returned his focus to his work. _It’s none of your business, focus on the roof so you can finish it and move on._

“Hey, Matt?”

He looked up to see Ramirez standing at the foot of the ladder. She’d changed from her regular jeans, plaid flannel, and boots to black slacks, a white button down, and flats. A blazer was folded over her arm. She had a grocery bag in hand. “Lunch,” She said flatly, “Bill and I have to go to the hospital. I don't know when I’ll be back. Suzanne should be by sometime around five to help Mike bring everyone in. I’ll leave the bag on the picnic table, Mike will know it’s yours.” She said quickly, and without waiting for a response, she turned and walked back toward the picnic bench.

There was some discussion between Mike, Davidson, and Ramirez, and then the sound of a vehicle starting and driving away. An eerie silence descended over the ranch. Someone had turned off the radio that usually blared out music throughout the day, leaving only the sound of his tools and Mike who worked down in the barn. He would occasionally answer phone calls, but always in a low, hushed tone, even the horses seemed quieter. They worked in this continued silence until Suzanne, and a couple of people he didn’t know arrived and brought in the horses for the evening.

Suzanne and her assistants departed as quickly as they’d come, leaving him and mike alone again. He climbed down the ladder as Mike finished up the evening feeding regimen, feeling compelled if not outright obligated to say something to the man before he left for the evening.

“Sleeping in the barn, huh,” Mike commented He tensed uncertain of what he should do or say. It wasn’t an accusation, so much as just a statement of fact. “Been there done that,” Mike said, pulling a card from his wallet extended it to him. “It’s a halfway house, my cell number is on the back if you need anything or want to get off that barn floor.”

He took the card wordlessly, but his expression must’ve been bewildered, because Mike continued, “We’ve all been through the shit,” Mike paused glancing around. “Davidson and I were the first, or some of the first, but that was back when Ramirez, Underdahl, and Wilson were the dynamic trio running this place together.”

 There was a sadness in the man’s voice, something nearly nostalgic in his tone. “What happened?” He couldn’t help but ask.

Mike chuckled humorlessly. “What happens to all of us? Life.” He shook his head but offered no further explanation.

It had been an invasive question at best, rude at the very worst. He nodded.

"Well. Anyway. I gotta get going. Seriously though, call if you need anything or wanna get off that barn floor, it’s softer and warmer than the ground, but not by much.”

He nodded, watching as the man walked out to his truck and drove away.

Then he turned to the picnic bench where Ramirez had left the grocery bag. Sitting he opened the bag and found two sandwiches, a bag of chips, two apples, a Gatorade, and a bottle of water. Tucked at the very bottom of the bag were a plain black hardback journal and a couple of rollerball pens. Stuck to the packaging of the journal was a sticky note, which read: _‘Easier to write things out than keep them all in your head. Thanks again for your help with the Roof. ~Maggie.’_

He found he was struck by the simple kindness of the action. Had she prepped this in advance or had she thought to make this in the middle of everything going on?

He glanced around. There was tangible anxiety in the air. It had originated with the phone call and had been growing in intensity since her departure with Davidson mid-morning. Davidson and Mike were concerned, and against his better judgment, he found that he was concerned for her, too. Why exactly he couldn’t quite enunciate, but he felt uneasy. Something was terribly wrong. Not just today with the phone call, but the pile of envelopes, the rotting barn roof, the dead husband, the exhaustion masked behind her smiles and easy laughs, her seemingly endless selflessness. Something was wrong, and either no one else could see it, or no one wanted to admit to the state of things. There was a light that Magdalen Ramirez brought to her community, to her people, but at what cost?

***

Maggie dropped Bill off at home around seven and took the long way back to the ranch. The windows rolled down, the radio off, she did her best to focus on the road and getting home safely rather than the events of the day.

Her friend and client Tim was dead, and as his emergency contact she had been called in to identify the body. It wasn’t the first time she’d had to do this, and unfortunately wouldn’t be the last. She’d had to identify Riley’s body whenever it had been brought stateside. She’d been prepared for that though, she’d had several days to prepare emotionally, psychologically, with Tim it had been so sudden.

She exhaled a shaky breath, blinking profusely as the headlights from oncoming traffic blurred.

_I should’ve seen the signs. I should’ve known this was coming. Should’ve been able to do something._

Her brain had been running a mile a minute since the phone call this morning. Fortunately, Bill had been there to talk to her and keep her grounded during the whole process. Now, in the silence of the truck cab, her thoughts were piling up on one another, overflowing like a backed up sink.

_He was doing so much better than when we first started our sessions. Yeah? But then Alice was killed._

She’d been called when Tim had gotten the news; he’d checked himself into a clinic. He’d been afraid he was going to hurt himself. She’d gone and visited him in the hospital, gone with him to the funeral home, and then attended the funeral along with Bill and Mike, and a few of the others from the Ranch.

_But he’d been healing. He’d been grieving and processing his emotions._

Yeah, but then he’d lost his job, and his vehicle was under threat of repossession, and he couldn’t get steady benefits. His extended family all lived so far away, and he’d never been close to them, and both his parents were dead and gone with no siblings to speak of. He hadn’t had much of a support network.

_I should’ve seen it coming. I should’ve reached out to him...been more involved._

Maggie sniffled, wiping her face with her sleeve.

_You failed him. You could’ve prevented this. You were supposed to protect your people. That’s what you’re good at. Why didn’t you stop this from happening?_

She blinked back tears her bottom lip trembling. _But I tried._ She tried to reason with herself.

_You weren’t enough. You’re never enough._

Maggie knew this was the exhaustion talking. It was emotional and physical weight she’d been carrying around for almost the last three years on her own, and it was crushing her.

_I just need to catch a break. I just need to catch my breath._

When? When would it come? It hadn’t yet, and it was only going to get worse in the immediate future. She’d spent most of the afternoon, running calculations, talking with her bank, talking with the credit card companies, with the VA, with the insurance company, with anyone and everyone she could think of trying to find a way to pay for her friend’s funeral without emptying out her already meager savings. In the end, it hadn’t mattered. She hadn’t had a choice. Hadn’t seen an alternative. She needed to bury her friend. Needed to give him a proper funeral. That was her responsibility. She’d failed him in life; she couldn’t fail him in death too.

_Fundraise._

That’s what Bill had told her. It was a good idea, it really was, but she didn’t have the time or the energy or the resources to organize an effective fundraiser. She couldn’t ask her volunteers or clients. They all their own debts and financial problems, everyone she knew was in very nearly the same boat.

_It wasn’t supposed to be this way. How had it gotten this bad?_

She was never supposed to be doing this alone. It was going to be the three of them, The Dream Team, working together, helping the veteran community, giving back.

Maggie pulled into the driveway up by the house and killed the engine. Suzanne had called her and confirmed that the horses had been brought in, and then Mike had texted her to let her know that the horses had been bedded down and fed for the evening. She was free to go inside and try to unwind from this horrifying shit show. Until tomorrow came, and it would come, and she would be forced to reckon with her decisions, and with the aftermath of Tim’s death in the Last Chance Ranch community.

She slumped against the steering wheel, closing her eyes as the world started to blur and spin.

_You’re not allowed to cry. You have too much shit to take care of. You have to be the responsible adult in this scenario. You have to keep going for your people. They’re counting on you. You have to continue to function, for them._

She was vividly aware of the fact that her self-talk wasn’t helping the situation, but at this point, she didn’t have the strength to fight it anymore. She didn’t have strength enough to do anything that might remotely resemble being a “responsible adult.” When had she last eaten? When had she last washed her hair or done laundry? She couldn’t say. Did it matter? It really didn’t.

Leaning against the steering column, Maggie let her hand wander to the silver chain, fingers fumbling with the larger of the two wedding bands she could feel the inscription on the inside. _From now,_ it read, and she knew the smaller band would have _until the end of time_ engraved inside the gold band.

_You have to get up you can_ _’t give up now. You have to get up you can’t quit._

Eventually summoning the energy to move, she walked inside, not bothering to lock the door behind her, and started stripping off her layers. Dropping her blazer, she pulled off her white button down and then the tank top she wore under, before kicking off her flats, and tugging off her slacks. Leaving the clothes where they fell, Maggie staggered to the kitchen, ignoring how her feet stuck to the floor slightly, not sure if the floor was just sticky or if it was just her sweaty feet.

She sighed, opening the fridge and then the freezer, before opening the fridge again. She rubbed her face. Opening the freezer again, pulled out an unopened pint of Ben and Jerry’s ice cream. Setting it on the counter, she rummaged through the pile of dirty dishes that had accumulated trying to find the cleanest spoon. Satisfied she’d scored the best of the bunch she shoved the spoon in her mouth, grabbed the bottle of red wine from the kitchen island with one hand, and collected the pint of ice cream with the other before walking out to the living room.

The TV was already on, she’d forgotten to turn it off when she’d gone down to the barn for the day, and a trashy novella rerun was on. She sunk down on the single lumpy sofa in the large room, setting the wine and ice cream down on the beat up antique-ish coffee table, still littered with the empty beer cans and wine bottles, coffee cups, other half-eaten cartons of ice cream, and abandoned bags of chips long gone stale.

“Just another day in paradise huh?” She commented, grabbing the bottle of wine cracked the seal and twisted the top off. She’d long given up on buying wine with a cork and instead was content with the screw top. Taking a long draw from the bottle, she set it down wincing. Pulling on the hoodie she’d left draped over the back of the couch, she rose and crossed the room to the corkboard wall. A collection of cork boards, it was her daily to-do lists and reminders, people to call, groceries to buy, a whole cork board was dedicated to the house renovation schedule now three years behind, with a “Coming Home” count down spread in the top right-hand corner likewise abandoned. However, the largest and brightest of these corkboards was covered with photos and drawings, things that she’d been given by clients. Molly’s drawing, the most recent addition, was tacked on top of the assortment.

Maggie reached out, her fingers brushing each of the stick figures Molly had drawn before she pushed aside the drawing to find what she was looking for. Removing the thumbtack, she took the last snapshot she had of Tim and Alice in hand.

It was a photo that Maggie had taken at one of the cookouts. They’d both looked so happy, both smiling and laughing at a joke Bill was telling. A candid if there was ever a candid photo. Alice’s short red hair was falling in her face, her eyes and nose crinkled in the telltale sign of laughter, while Tim watched Alice. There was this look of fondness, and _love_ on Tim’s face it was palpable even now that both of them were gone. Wiping her eyes with a thumb, she took the snapshot and wandered to the ladder shelf on the other side of the TV stand.

It wasn’t a proper Ofrenda, but she’d never had a chance to build a real one like the one her Abuela and grandpa had in their old house. Her damn uncle had taken it, and she wasn’t about to fight him about it, even if he was a downright bastard. There was her maternal grandparent’s wedding photo, her brother’s graduation photo, a photo of her mother from one of her last birthdays, a photo of Riley’s parents and grandparents, and a photo of her, Riley and Sam at the 1940s themed military ball. There were a number of others there as well. Clients...or rather former clients. Andrew, he’d died from cancer three years ago, Vietnam Veteran, navy. Michael, killed two years ago in a confrontation with the cops while he was having a PTSD fueled hallucination, two-tour Army veteran. Jason, painkiller overdose a year and a half ago, a three-tour Marine Corps veteran, who’d also done five years for possession and aggravated assault. Now there was Tim and Alice’s photo nestled amongst them. All of them either had no family or were estranged from whatever family they had left. It was up to her to remember them, to put them on her Ofrenda. She couldn’t let them be forgotten in death, not when she had failed them so utterly and completely in life.

Maggie absently touched the face of her grandmother’s Virgin of Guadalupe statue, her finger’s pausing a moment on her grandfather’s rosary, before they trailed down to trace Riley’s name, stamped in the metal dog tag. Maggie exhaled slowly, aware that her hands were shaking. Tears that had been welling in her eyes had started to slip down her face.

“Damn it.” She muttered, wiping at her face with the hoodie sleeve. Turning off the TV, she fished her phone from the blazer she’d discarded on the floor and headphones from the array of garbage on the coffee table and settled down on the couch as she scrolled through her contacts. With her free hand she grabbed the bottle of wine, taking another swig. She paused, her thumb hovering over the contact labeled “*THAT* bastard,” resolve wavering. _Would he want to talk to me?_ She wondered. _No. Probably not._ Maggie shook her head.

Exiting her contacts she opened up her playlists, selecting the one titled “Letters Home from the Dream Team.”

Putting her headphones in, Maggie took another drink from the bottle of wine and hit play. There were a few seconds of static before Riley’s voice flooded over her.

 _'Hey, Mags!’_ Riley began.

 _‘Heeeyyyyy Maaaggggs,’_ Sam chorused somewhere in the background, making kissy noises.

 _‘_ _Really Dude? Shut the fuck up! Jeezus Christ!’_ Riley shot back. Maggie could practically hear him roll his eyes. _‘Sorry about that, I hope you’re doing alright. I know you wanted us to try to write or call more while we’re over here. I figured this would split the difference.’_

 _"_ Plus it solves the issue of you being unable to read my handwriting.” Maggie quoted along, smiling even as the tears streamed down her face. She opened the pint of ice cream and ate a large spoonful before taking another long draw from the bottle.

 _‘You’ll be pleased to know that even over 6,000 miles away from New York, Wilson is still the biggest pain in the ass this side of the Mississippi. I’m afraid I can’t tell you much about what we’re doing over here, or even where here is. How is the house? And the horses? Last time we talked you were waiting for Suzanne to get back to you about Mr. McSmush.”_ She could hear Sam snort in the background. _“Dude, shut up it’s a great name!”_

 _'_ _Yeah? In what alternate universe Underdahl? Mags, you’re crazy. Not only did you marry him, but now you’re letting him name things now? I can’t wait to hear the names he picks out for your future kids.’_ Sam interjected.

 _'_ _Anyway. I was thinking about the downstairs renovation. Are you still thinking about the textured wallpaper on the powder room ceiling? I mean it sounds like a cool idea, but a pain in the ass to install. Have you gotten the electrical issues sorted out in the kitchen yet? I don’t feel comfortable with you YouTubing how to do it yourself, you really should hire someone.’_ Riley paused, the sound of sirens blaring in the background _. ‘We gotta go. Love you Mags baby, I’ll talk to you soon. I love you so much. Be safe.’_

 _‘_ _Love you Mags!’_ Sam managed before Riley shut off the recorder.

Maggie chuckled, eating another large spoonful of ice cream. The next letter started automatically, and she let Riley and Sam’s ramblings wash over her, listening to him and Sam bicker amicably, his suggestions for repairs to the house and the property, more name for the horses, plans for them and their future together, the three of them, together. A moment frozen in time when they’d been a happy family, albeit a bit unconventional, and at times totally dysfunctional. By the end of the fifth letter, Maggie had demolished the bottle of wine and what remained of the ice cream had been left to melt. She’d hoped the wine would make her numb or at the very least relaxed enough to sleep. Instead, she lay on the couch, listening to the sound of Riley’s voice too exhausted to work up a good sob.

‘ _We’ll be home soon Mags baby. I can’t wait to see you. I gotta go! Be safe! Love you!’_ Riley’s last audio letter concluded, and Maggie yanked out the headphones letting the phone slip off the couch dragging the headphone with them.

The house fell silent. It was this time of night that she felt the most dread, and felt the echoes of her old life the most, the life she’d wanted, the life she’d planned together with Riley and Sam. Tears pooled in the corner of her eyes as she lay on the couch, slipping down her cheeks, soaking into the filthy couch cushions under her.

It was at this time of night that she always remembered the day her world had come crashing down around her. The spotless silver sedan that had pulled slowly up the gravel road, their freshly pressed, crisp uniforms, their sober, grave expressions, the feeling of falling, the repeated mantra of _I’m going to wake up._ Only she hadn’t woken up, and now two and half years later Maggie felt she was in one continuous waking nightmare.

After the immediate shock, she’d then done everything she could to get ahold of Sam, which had been a fiasco. They hadn’t seen one another until the day before the funeral, and then after only a handful of times in the two and a half years since. They sent each other birthday and holiday cards, but Sam hadn’t been back to the Ranch since before their last deployment. Everything about the place reminded Sam of what he’d lost, too much of what they had lost, a life together with Riley, gone forever.

The last she’d seen of Sam was on the news, all wrapped up in the Captain America, SHIELD/ Hydra fiasco down in Washington, D.C. Maggie had thought about calling, but what would be the point? What could she possibly have to say that he would want to hear? He’d never dated her, they weren’t a couple, they’d been Riley’s partners. Now that Riley was gone, she really had no place in his life, and he could choose to live that life any way he wanted. If that meant cowboying around with Captain America, then that was really his prerogative. She had her life, and he had his, that’s all there was to it.

_We were supposed to be a team. It wasn’t supposed to turn out like this. It’s not fair._

That’s what it always came back to. It wasn’t fair. But none of this fair. Would she be running a veterans’ equine therapy ranch if things were fair? Would she be about to lose the ranch if things were fair? Would she be burying one of her friends and clients at the ripe old age of thirty-seven if things were fair? It wasn’t fair. She knew that. _But at least I can try to help my people._ That had been the balm to soothe the injustice of the entire situation, but soon she might not even be able to do that.

_I want my boys._

That’s all she could think as she lay prone on the couch, clutching the empty wine bottle to her, hair in her face, staring at the wall, too tired to move, too wired to sleep, and too indifferent to care.

 _Just make it to tomorrow._ She repeated over and over.

If this was as bad as it was going to get then, there was nowhere to go but up. But even as she lay there, Maggie knew there was no reprieve in the immediate future, there was still a ways to go before reaching rock bottom, and then again she’d brought a shovel for when she arrived.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay! So, I know that was a tough chapter (It made my partner cry), but now we officially know who Mags is! When is Bucky going to figure it out? Well, there are only five more chapters so very soon! Next chapter we get Sam! 
> 
> Thank you all for reading! I hope you enjoyed! Please comment, leave Kudos, or subscribe! Let me know what you think, I really do enjoy reading feedback!


	8. Cowgirl Don't Cry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note: Marvel owns what it owns, and I own what I own, let's keep it that way shall we? Don’t Sue me! 
> 
> Recommended Listening: Cowgirls Don’t Cry by Brooks & Dunn, I Miss you by Blink 182, Me Myself & I by Eazy x Bebe Rexha, Stressed Out by Twenty One Pilots

Maggie awoke to the sound of her phone buzzing on the ground. She cracked opened her eyes, crusted from tears and aching, and launched herself onto the floor scrabbling for the phone before the caller hung up. Half blind, she answered. "Last Chance Ranch, this is Magdalene Ramirez speaking." She managed to croak out.

She was greeted with silence, but before she could hang up, she heard the subtle intake of breath. "Hey Mags."

Her heart stopped, and she sat down on the couch. "Sam?"

There was another silence. "Yeah." He said slowly. "Been a while, how you doin'?"

Maggie sighed squeezing her eyes shut, trying to ease the pounding at her temples. “Bill or Suzanne?”

“Mags.”

"I have a hangover and three clients today, just answer the question, Samuel Thomas Wilson." She snapped, though she winced as she did a sharp pain shooting through her skull.

"Bill last night, Suzanne this morning," Sam answered flatly.

"Jesus." She fell back against the couch cushions, shielding her eyes with the arm that wasn't holding up the phone. "What time is it now?"

“8:00.”

“Fuuckkk.” She moaned.

"Don't worry. Suzanne said she'd take care of your morning feed and set up for your first appointment."

"Appreciate it," Maggie said blandly, as she rose, muscles aching, head pounding in complaint. "So to what do I owe this call? As you said...been a while."

“Well. All things being what they are, figured I should check up on you.”

"Yeah, thanks for that." She would've rolled her eyes, but her head hurt, so she settled on the sarcastic tone.

“I can not, next time if you’d like.”

“Well. You can do whatever you want. It’s not like _we_ ever dated. You know, you were just going to live with me and my husband, your boyfriend, on a fucking farm we were supposed to run together.” She snapped out as she scooped up a pair of pants off the floor and started to tug them on. “But now you don’t even call to tell me that you’re working with Captain America taking down science Nazis. Or, oh, _I’m sorry_ was I just supposed to be okay with that?”

There was a long silent pause, and Maggie thought for an instant that he'd hung up, and in Wilson's defense, she would've deserved it. "It was a spur of a moment thing." Sam hesitated as he chose his next words. "Though it is nice to hear that you still care, Mags."

Maggie winced, sinking down on to a sheet covered armchair, rubbing her forehead. “Sam...” She faltered. The way he’d said it had stung a bit, and now she was blinking back tears. “Of course I care.” Maggie exhaled a shaking breath. “I miss you...I miss...us. All of us...together.” She bit her lip to try and stop it from trembling.

"I miss you too...miss us...the whole thing. It's hard not to miss it if I'm being honest." He said slowly. "How's everything up there at the old place?"

She glanced around, the walls half bare, with exposed wires and sheetrock and framing. The kitchen a wreck, dirty laundry weeks old scattered on the floor. "I...uhhh...the same. You know. routine, stability, familiar surroundings." She said quickly. There was no way in hell she could tell Sam how bad it was, how bad everything had gotten. She couldn't tell him that she was weeks possibly days away from bankruptcy. She couldn't tell him that she was about to lose it all. He obviously had bigger shit to deal with than his former partner's widow.

“Sounds nice.” He answered after a moment.

"You should come up and visit,” Maggie quipped. She’d asked him multiple times since Riley’s death and since he’d left the Air Force to come and visit, to no avail. It was more habit now than anything else. Only now, now she wouldn’t want him to come and see her wallowing. Have him see the space, frozen, waiting for him and Riley to come back, waiting for a life that was frankly never going to happen. “I mean, if you can, I understand if you’re super busy running around with Captain America and the Super Friends.” She added quickly with a little laugh, doing her best to lighten the mood.

“The Avengers? Nah. I’m not that crazy. Doing a favor for Cap.”

“Oh? Like what? Visiting Children’s hospitals and charities dressed as The Falcon?” She asked doing her best to sound pleasant and politely intrigued while pulling off her hoodie and slipping on a tank top and a relatively clean button down.

“Not exactly.” There was hesitance in Sam’s voice that made her stop.

“Oh. God. Do I want to know?”

“No. Probably not.” Sam answered, “But you probably should know just in case...”

"Just in case what? Are supervillains going to come knocking on my front door Sammie?"

There was again a hesitant pause. “Sam?” She asked picking up one of the water bottles from the coffee table and unscrewing the cap taking a sip.

“We’re tracking down the Winter Soldier.”

She almost spewed her water from her nose. "What the fuck?" She coughed.

“Yeah. Long story.”

"Yeah, I'll say. Jeezus Sam. We're talking about the murder cyborg that's been all over the news since you and Captain Nice Ass took down S.H.I.E.L.D., right?"

Sam barely contained a snort. “Yeah. Has some information that Steve needs.” Sam explained.

"Oh?" Maggie had to hide a smile. The use of the good Captain's first name was intriguing, but she wasn't about to push Sam on it. Sam wasn't the kind to kiss and tell, least of all if it was a fine piece of red white and blue ass like that. Besides, he'd called her. Obviously, there was something else happening, he needed something. "And what do you and _Steve_ need from me? At least I assume that’s what the call is about.”

"Okay, I'd like the record to show I did call you because I'm concerned," Sam said quickly.

“Butttt? I mean that’s what’s coming next right? What do you need Sam?”

Sam paused with a heavy sigh before continuing, "Our guy went off the grid in NYC, that's the last place we've been able to track him to. You haven't seen or heard anything weird have you?"

Maggie had to keep from snorting. "Like Nazi murder cyborgs with metal arms?" She asked incredulously. "No. Can't say I have. Should I be keeping my eye out all the way up here in bum-fuck-middle of nowhere New York State?"

“Just keeping all the options open. He’s defected, so Hydra’s not going to be very nice about getting him back.”

“I’ll keep an eye out and let you know if I see anyone with a metal arm and Hydra buddies coming to break down my door.” She rolled her eyes.

“I’m being serious Mags.”

“I know. Which is what’s ridiculous about this situation. I _seriously_ doubt your guy would come and hide out in rural middle of nowhere on an equine therapy ranch. But that being said, you and the good Captain are more than welcome to come and check if you’re in the area.” Maggie paused. “We’re having a cookout tomorrow. For the April birthdays.” She said weakly.

"Steve and I are in NYC, I’ll see what we can do. No promises though.” That’s what he said, that’s what he always said.

“Yeah. That sounds like a good plan.” Maggie sighed.

“I was sorry to hear about Tim. I heard he was having a hard time since Alice passed away.” Sam said quietly.

"Yeah." Maggie swallowed hard. "Sam?" She faltered. She wanted to ask, needed to ask, needed to know. Was she making a difference? Was anything she was doing actually helping? Or was she just as ineffectual at helping these people as she was at her housekeeping and ranch management? Sam would tell her. Sam wouldn't blow smoke up her ass, he was never one to sugar coat anything. He was the realist after all, out of the three of them.

“Mags?” Sam called out.

“Yeah. Sorry. Kinda got sidetracked a moment. I need to get going. I have an appointment in half an hour and need to get myself presentable.”

"Yeah, me too. I gotta run."

"Duty calls?”

"Yeah, something like that," Sam said.           

"Be safe out there Sammie.”

"You too, Mags. Gotta go, love you, bye!" Sam hung up before she could say anything else.

Maggie sighed, putting down the phone, sunk back onto the couch. “The Winter Soldier? Here? On Last Chance Ranch?” She snorted, burying her face in her hands. “Yeah right.”

_Which is precisely why you didn't mention ‘Scary Matt'?_ The adult part of her brain asked.

_No, because it's just Scary Matt. Besides, even if he is the Winter Soldier, I seriously doubt he'd let the Falcon and Captain Blue Eyes Sexy Pants take him in._ The other part of her brain, the stupid and irresponsible part, reasoned.

Maggie stopped herself. There was no way ‘Scary Matt' was the guy Sam and Cap' were looking for, this was her hungover sleep-deprived brain running away with itself.

She rose, walking into the kitchen took the stale coffee from the day before and took a long draw directly from the carafe. Wincing only slightly, she returned the pot to the machine, pulling a baseball cap and her sunglasses from the rake she’d hung up to hold keys on, and walked out the back door and down the hill to begin her day.

Walking down to the barn she found Suzanne there waiting for her, coffee cup in hand. “You look like shit, kid.” She said, handing Maggie the cup of coffee.

Maggie said nothing, taking the coffee and taking a couple small sips.

“There’s a breakfast sandwich for you on your desk. I sent your volunteer out to check the back 40’s fence for a breach.”

“There’s a breach in the fence?” Maggie asked, before getting a good look at Suzanne’s expression. “Oh.” She exhaled slowly.

Suzanne paused, surveying her closely. “You all right?”

"I'm fine," Maggie said shortly.

“You’re not alone in this you know.” Suzanne began.

“Can we skip the lecture please?” Maggie snapped.

Suzanne put her hands up as if in surrender. “Okay okay. Just wanted to check in, make sure you’re hanging in there.”

"I'm fine," Maggie repeated. "And why'd you and Bill have to call Sam? We all know that Wilson is the last person in the world who I'd want to talk to about this shit. If he was so interested in anything that had to do with _me_ , he'd be here. I wouldn't have to find out from the TV that he's working with Captain Fucking America."

Suzanne mercifully said nothing. Maggie was being a child, she knew she was being a child and if she was honest with herself a brat too. But everything hurt, and she wanted to cry and spend the whole day in bed watching telenovelas while someone stroked her hair and fed her carbs, preferably somehow smothered in chocolate. She certainly didn't want to be mucking out stalls or dealing with Scary Matt, or talking to people, even people she liked.

 “Bill told me when the funeral is going to be. Have you made an announcement to the team?” Suzanne asked.

"I was going to do that in a little while. Have some office and bookkeeping things to take care of after this first appointment." She said shortly.

“All right. Just let us know what you need, seriously Maggie. You’re not alone in this.” Suzanne paused as a vehicle drove up. “I think you’re 9:00am is here. I’ll let you get to it.” She pat Maggie on the shoulder before walking out to her vehicle.

Maggie sighed, downing the rest of the burnt convenient store coffee. Today was going to be hard, but she’d get through it. She didn’t have a choice. She tossed the cup in the trash can and walked out to meet her client.

Fortunately, the appointment went smoothly, and with no other pressing matters until the afternoon, Maggie found herself in the office sifting through the backlog of paperwork trying to find her banking book. The breakfast sandwich sat there in her periphery, the object of her growing disdain and ire.

_I can feed myself, I don’t need Suzanne and Bill and Sam babying me. How dare they fucking call Sam. Sam NEVER calls me unless I’m dying, or he thinks I’m dying. A fucking breakfast sandwich really? I can feed myself. I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself._

She snatched up the sandwich and charged from the office toward the large trash can. Moving so fast she nearly fell headlong into the six-foot wall of muscle and scary that was Scary Matt. "Shit." She swore, stumbling backward.

He stopped, surveying her, but said nothing.

"Hey. I have this for you. Sorry. Running a little behind today." Maggie rushed. She extended the sandwich to him which he took slowly, a calculated and hesitant edge to his movements.  

He nodded, stowing the sandwich away in a pocket of his jacket. "There wasn't a breach in the fence, but there were a few crossbars that were nearly rotted away and needed to be replaced." He said with nearly the same calculated hesitance that he'd just used when taking the sandwich from her. "I took care of it for you."

"Thank-" She cut herself off as a lump formed in her throat. Why the hell was she choked up about that? She'd just about chewed Suzanne's ass for bringing her coffee and breakfast, but now she was getting choked up over this? Well considering the guy had been on death's door when he showed up and was now fixing shit without being asked, perhaps it was worth feeling a little sentiment over. She coughed to clear her throat before continuing. "Thank you for doing that. You know you didn't have to. You're not obligated. Particularly since you've been working on the roof so diligently."

Matt nodded again. “Thank you for the journal. You didn’t have to do that.” He said, avoiding direct eye contact while simultaneously working to give her a once over.

“Of course. I had a few laying around the house, figured you might find it useful.” She replied crisply.

Did he know? Had anyone told him what was going on? Or was this once over something else entirely? She didn’t know.

“I’ll get back to the roof.” He turned and walked out of the barn and out of her line of sight.

Maggie watched him go. _It doesn't matter, I can't focus on Scary Matt._ Maggie returned to the office, sinking down at the desk, she did her best to clear away the pile of papers that had accumulated on the keyboard and booted up the old computer. It took it a moment, but she opened the documents and spreadsheets she needed. She also opened the internet browser to her email. She needed to tell everyone. She needed to let everyone know what had happened. It would be easier than fielding a thousand questions and even more follow up on when the funeral and the wake was going to take place.

After everything eventually loaded, she typed out an email and sent it. Closing the page, she hesitated before typing in ‘Winter Soldier, Washington, D.C.,' into the search bar. She watched as the page loaded. Shaky video footage and blurry photos popped. Maggie shook her head, closing the web browser. "This is stupid, this is your brain running away with you." She muttered, "If Sam wants to come up here and take a look around for the Winter Soldier, he's more than welcome to it. I have work to do. Maggie sighed, glancing at the mountain of paperwork. She had bigger fish to fry, the good captain's quest for the Winter Soldier would have to wait.

***

He was back on the roof. He was nearing the end, it would take another day and a half of work, but then he'd be gone. He glanced around the ranch was quiet. Ramirez hadn't bothered to turn on the radio and only came out of the office to work with clients before she retreated back inside. The eerie silence that had descended upon the place yesterday afternoon hadn't lifted. Suzanne had mentioned funeral which meant Tim was dead. That's what he'd heard. Everything made sense and fell into place. It would also explain why Ramirez had been late this morning and looked a little more than just disheveled. He shook his head and tried to focus exclusively on the roof. It was the only thing he was good for at present. _The faster you work, the faster you're out of here._

He worked without interruption until mid-afternoon when Mike and Davidson arrived. Davidson nodded in greeting, before heading into the office without a word. Mike, however, approached the foot of the ladder and called up. "Hey Matt, a favor?"

_A Favor?_

"Have a couple picnic benches I need to get out to the back of my truck. If you'd be willing to help me offload them."

“Yeah. No problem.” He climbed down from the roof and offloaded both picnic benches.

"Have a few more things to bring by for tomorrow. How have things been around here?" Mike commented as they placed the tables around the barnyard.

“Quiet.”

"Yeah. That happens. Ramirez takes all this personally.”

He nodded but said nothing. Should he say something? Offer his condolences? He didn't know what he ought to do.  

"Mike!" Ramirez emerged from the office, Davidson behind her as they walked from the office. "See you got Matt to help." Ramirez embraced him. Releasing Mike from the embrace, she turned to him, a definite tinge of red around her eyes, her cheeks and face slightly puffy. "Thanks for helping, while I stole Bill away." She flashed a small brittle smile. "I appreciate it."

"Specifics for Tim's wake and service," Davidson interjected, glancing meaningfully between Mike and Ramirez, communicating a private message that he wasn't privy to.

“Anything you want us to do, Ramirez?” Mike asked obviously picking up Davidson’s meaning.

"Let's just focus on the party tomorrow. Bill and I have everything more or less settled for Tim. I'll be sure to let you know." Ramirez said shortly. Her tone was friendly, but her expression said, _drop it._

They were all interrupted by the sound of an approaching vehicle. "Oh great, what does _he_ want?" Ramirez growled, her expression stony, her whole body coiled tight, ready to lash out at the first sign of danger.

"You want me to get rid of him, Ramirez?" Davidson asked, voice low, almost deadly, as the man stood up straight, growing a good four inches both up and out.

“No. I’ll be able to manage him. Don’t do anything stupid. I can’t afford the legal or medical bills, stay put.” She warned gravely as she walked toward the approaching vehicle.

It was Jack Roberts, and he was with an older gentleman of similar build and appearance. _His father, perhaps?_

 “The hell he bring Senior for?” Mike muttered.

“Insurance,” Davidson said flatly, before glancing back at him. “Land developer. Want to commercialize. Junior’s got most everyone around her. Ramirez is one of the last hold outs.” Davidson supplied for his benefit.

_So he’s bringing his father to strong arm her? No. That wasn’t it. Davidson had said Insurance. Insurance? Insurance from what?_

"Word around town is you scared the shit out of him last time," Mike commented.

“Oh.” So word had traveled that he’d intervened. _Damn it._ Although Mike and Davidson didn't seem to mind which meant that they knew to some degree that Roberts was dangerous. Roberts was the type to physically and verbally harass someone he thought of as his lesser. He knew the type, all too well. How much did they know? How would they react if they knew what Roberts had done? Of what he'd prevented? Would they be watching as calmly as they were now?

 They all watched the exchange between the two and the two men. Her body language was tense but far less so than the last encounter he’d witnessed. Although they were well out of earshot. So none of them could quite make out what was being said between them.

Should he tell them? Warn them that Roberts might try something else? Try something a little more drastic than bringing his father along on a house call? _Your only responsibility is to fix the roof and move on. You've already gotten too involved._

"Oh Good, they're done," Davidson commented dryly as the trio shook hands and the two men climbed back into their vehicle and drove away. The woman watched them go, waiting until they were out of sight before turning back to face them. Her jaw was clenched, her face grave.

“Everything all right?” Davidson asked, an edge of concern to his voice that hadn’t been there before.

"Yeah. We're good. I have to inside and make a few phone calls if you need me holler."

They all watched her go before Davidson turned to Mike. "All right. Let's bring the gang in." He paused turning to him. "Guess you should get back to that roof."

He nodded, and they went about their separate tasks. They were worried, but it seemed that Ramirez didn’t want them to worry, wouldn’t let them worry, even to her own detriment. She hadn’t told them about what had happened that day between her and Roberts. Should he? _It’s not really any of my business. Besides what difference would it make anyway_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We finally got to Sam! I love me some Sam Wilson. This one was on the shorter side of things, but I still love seeing Mags and Sam interact. Let me know what you thought! I can't believe we're only a few short weeks from endgame!


	9. One Last Hurrah

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note: Marvel owns what it owns, and I own what I own, let's keep it that way shall we? Don’t Sue me! 
> 
> Recommended Listening: Las Mananitas by Vicente Fernandez, I walk the line by Johnny Cash, El Paso by Marty Robbins, Yellow Rose of Texas by Roy Rogers, Volver, Volver by Ana Gabriel, Against the Wind by Bob Seager, Star Dust By Willie Nelson

_Don’t cry, don’t cry, you don’t have time to cry._ She blinked back tears, the columns of numbers blurring in and out of focus. She ran her sleeve across her face, wiping at tears and sniffling. _No, no, no. You can’t cry. You don’t have time for this._

Maggie took a deep breath, and exhaled slowly, trying to ease the pounding in her ears and the tightness in her throat. Her hand trembled she dialed Suzanne’s number. They’d talked about this, and now it was time. She’d known the second that Roberts had come down the drive that she was in for another really shitty day. Unfortunately, she’d been right. Rather than trying to buy her outright, he was now going to starve her out, or rather starve her horses out. It was like he knew that she’d just emptied her savings for Tim’s funeral, and now she didn’t have the resources or the capacity to handle a steep price hike on her hay. It was like a shark smelling blood in the water, he’d just come in for the kill.

 _No. You can’t think like that. You have options, think this through._ She’d have to ask Suzanne for a favor until she could figure something out. She glanced up at the calendar and then down at her list of figures before hitting the call button.

The phone rang a few times before it went to voice mail, and Maggie had to resist the urge to hang up. _You’re being stupid, ask for the hay, ask for help._ The tone beeped. “Hey Suzanne,” She paused to clear her throat. “Sorry. It’s Mags. Everything is fine, I’m okay. Roberts came by. I’m going to need to call in that favor. We can talk logistics Monday after everything, I have enough hay to last me a while, so it’s not urgent, just needs to get settled soon. Thank you again, talk to you later. Bye!”

She hung up. Rubbing her face, pressing the heels of her hands into her eyes, trying to relieve some of the pounding behind her eyes. _You’re not allowed to cry, you got yourself into this mess, you can get yourself out of it._

She moved to push more of the envelopes out of the way and winced at the sound of the picture frame behind the desk falling to the floor, the glass in the frame shattering. “Damn it.” She crouched below the desk, fishing for the frame. Retrieving it, Maggie sighed, slumping against the desk. Holding the frame in one hand, she used the other to wipe away the dust from around the frame, her fingers tracing the lines of the shattered glass, tears dripping down her face. “What do I do, Riley? You always were the optimist? What do I do now?” Her voice warbled, as she sniffled, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. “What do I do now?”

The day concluded without further incident, and she managed to crawl upstairs and into bed rather than passing out on the couch. Morning came and Maggie found herself curled up on the shower floor. The water streamed over her masking the tears that streaked her face. She would go out there and put on a happy face because that’s what was needed. She had to be strong for her team, for her clients. There would be time to process and grieve and mourn later, sooner than she cared to admit or think about. For now, she had to keep on fighting, keep on pushing through it. She couldn’t give up now.

The water had started to run cold and stung her skin when she managed to haul herself from the tiled shower floor. She quickly dried and dressed, and pulling on her boots started out into the early morning mist. _Just one more day. Just make it through one more._ Maggie repeated to herself over and over. _One more day._ She told herself. As if she hadn’t said the exact same thing for almost two years.

Maggie arrived at the barn and paused at the sound of footsteps and a low voice. Sliding the door back found Matt with a feed bucket in hand at Shadow’s stall. She opened and closed her mouth a few times, his piercing blue eyes on her waiting for her to find her words. “You know you don’t have to do that.” She stammered after a moment.

"You were late.” He answered, dumping the contents of the bucket into the trough.

“Thank you.” She managed weakly. “I’ve been a little out of sorts.”

“Understandable.” He nodded, moving back to the feed barrel, carefully scooped up another portion. “The feed regimens on the board in the tack room are up to date, aren’t they?”

 “Yes. But-” She faltered as he glanced up at her.

“Suzanne is here.”

“What?” Maggie stammered but stopped at the sound of a vehicle pulling up the driveway. “Oh. So she is.” She turned but stopped mid step. “I’ll be right back.” She rushed, before walking from the barn.

“Got your call, sorry I couldn’t call you back last night. Robinsons had a mare go into labor, and the poor girl needed some help.” Suzanne explained, climbing out of her truck. “Figured since I was going to be coming by any way that we could talk now.”

“Sounds good. Wanna talk on the picnic bench?”

Suzanne nodded, and they walked over to the picnic bench overlooking the pasture. They both settled down on top of the table and looked out over the rolling green hills. It was beautiful, near picturesque, which was going to make the coming conversation all the more difficult.

“So. What’s the plan?” Suzanne asked without looking over at her.

The dreaded question. The question Maggie knew that Suzanne was going to ask. “I don’t know.”

“Bill told me you emptied your savings for Tim.”

Maggie rolled her eyes, shaking her head. “You two are a couple of damn gossips.”

“Only when it comes to helping you keep this place afloat.” Suzanne paused, glancing over at her. “And before you say ‘it’s fine’ we both know that’s bull, and that you’re not going to be able to hide that fact from everyone for very much longer.”

Maggie lowered her head, shame welling in her chest until she could practically taste it at the back of her throat. “I didn’t call you for a lecture Suzanne.” She managed weakly.

“Maybe that’s what you need, Mags. I know you're pissed at me and Bill for calling Wilson. But we all know he’s the realist out of the three of you.”

“Two of us you mean. And yes I know.” Maggie nodded.

Suzanne said nothing, looking back out over the pasture. “So what’s your plan? It’s the only way we’re gonna have a snowballs chance to save this place.”

“Can we talk about this Monday? I just need a yes or no today about the hay. Everything else can wait until after this weekend.”

“Sure. I can let you share some of my hay, but we both know this isn’t just about the hay.”

“Suzanne.”

“Monday. It can wait until Monday.” She agreed.

Maggie sighed, rubbing her face. “I need a break.”

 “You deserve one.” Maggie glanced up at the older woman who was watching her closely. “Sometimes the best you can do is to know when it’s time to pack it up.”

 “You mean give up?”

 “Look. Whatever you want to call it, there’s no shame in calling it quits for a while until you can get your feet under you.” Suzanne reasoned.

“You know I can’t do that.”

 “At this rate you might not have a choice.”

Maggie exhaled sharply but said nothing. What was there left to say?

“Come up with a plan between now and Monday and we’ll talk it over.”

“Yes, Ma’am.” Maggie nodded.

 “I’m not a ma’am, Ramirez.” Suzanne clapped her on the back. “Come on. We have a party to throw.”

They rose and walked back to the barn, Maggie’s head spinning. _Just one more day, just make it through one more._

***

   

He helped Suzanne and Ramirez lead the horses out to pasture before climbing back up on the roof. Suzanne and Ramirez walked around below preparing for the evening’s festivities.

He’d heard her crying in the barn yesterday evening after Davidson and Mike had left. And now today she’d been later than she’d been before. He tried to focus, but everything felt sharp and jagged, raw. Something twinged in his stomach every time he saw her, but he tried to ignore it, ignore the nagging feeling that all of this was going to end badly.

"Hey, Matt.”

He glanced down to where Ramirez was standing at the foot of the ladder. She looked exhausted, her eyes ringed with dark circles. “A favor?” She asked uncertainly. “If you have a minute.”

He looked over his shoulder at Suzanne’s truck as it pulled away. “Sure. I can spare a minute.” He nodded securing his tools and climbing down the ladder.

“Tables and chairs from my storage closet,” She explained shortly, motioning for him to follow her up toward the house. “It might take us a couple of trips. I don’t think we can carry everything all at once.” She said lightly. “Suzanne had to run into town to get some things from the grocery store.”

She led him through the back door of the house, into what appeared to be a laundry room. On the floor there a half dozen pairs of shoes, a majority of them seemed to be men’s sized, abandoned, or at the very least forgotten by the look of them. They entered the kitchen, dirty dishes occupied the counter space, the island littered with rolls of tinfoil and plastic bags. The walls of the kitchen were no more than support beams and wire in places. _That’s why there was all of the drywall._ He couldn’t help but think. From the kitchen, she led him into a large living area. The walls were covered in corkboards each laden heavily with scraps of papers and reminders. Most of them appeared to be covered in dust or flecks of old drywall. Everything except a shelf with photographs seemed to be covered in some kind of dust. She continued off to the right, where there was a narrow hallway with closet doors on either side. He walked toward the shelf as if drawn in by some magnetic force, pulling him toward it.

There he was, Wilson, standing beside Underdahl and Ramirez. She knew him, Wilson. Wilson was the man who had helped Steve Rogers and Natasha Romanoff on the bridge, and then again on the Hellicarrier. Wilson was the Falcon. He glanced between the faces in the photograph on the shelf. _She was happy here_ was his first thought. The smile, the laughter, the glint in their eyes. They had been in love, all of them together. _Does she know who I am? Has Wilson instructed her to stall him?_ Was the thought that followed the first. _That wasn’t it, it couldn’t be. The roof was a secondary issue, there was no way she could’ve planned having a roof leak. The terror and panic in her expression had been real, that much was evident._

 _How much time do I have?_ Not much. He’d leave while she was at the wake. Tonight he’d mingle and put on a willing face. He couldn’t make a scene or arouse suspicions. Anyway, he’d be done with the roof tomorrow. _Leave now, leave now if she figures out who you are she’ll call in Wilson and Rogers._ His mind screamed. _And? Why not?_ He paused, taken aback. It was a new thought, or novel, to say the very least. But it didn’t matter. He had to keep moving. He couldn’t let Rogers find him, not yet, maybe not ever. He didn’t know who he was and he needed to get his mind in order before he could begin to sort through what it all meant, and the repercussions of that. He was a known international criminal. Steve Rogers might be Captain America, but nothing would change what he had done for Hydra. He couldn’t let hydra get their claws into him again either, and anonymity was imperative. He’d lingered too long, soon, soon they’d come for him.

He glanced up and made eye contact with the statue set front and center of the shelf. Her gaze was stern, disapproving, like she knew what he was like she knew what he was planning. Running away, as fast and as far as his feet would carry him. What was his alternative? Turn himself over to the authorities? Could they be trusted not to be Hydra? Would he receive a fair trial? Or would he be swept under the rug, repurposed as someone else’s weapon? He couldn’t take that chance. He wouldn’t.

“That should be all of it," Ramirez announced, drawing his attention.

She’d hauled a dozen or so folding chairs and two card tables out of the closet, and they were all leaning against the wall. “Everything okay?” She asked, surveying him carefully.

“Thinking through what I need to do to finish up your roof,” He answered shortly.

“Sorry for dragging you away. I’ll return you to it here shortly. Promise. Are you close?”

“Should be done tomorrow.” He answered.

“That’s awesome!” She smiled. “I appreciate all your hard work. Seriously Matt, let me pay you for your time.” She said as she started gathering up chairs.

“That’s unnecessary.” He replied firmly collecting both tables in one hand, and three chairs in the other.

She starred, blinking before she wordlessly led them back out of the house again. She instructed him where to set up the tables and chairs, but he was mercifully allowed to go back to the roof when Suzanne returned with an armful of groceries.

Party preparation continued below as he worked, and as more people started to arrive the gloomy air that had descended over the place at the announcement of Tim’s death began to ease slightly. Ramirez moved the radio out from the interior of the barn, and music filled the air, echoing over the afternoon air. When they brought the horses into the barn for the evening, Mike came to the foot of the ladder. “Come on Matt, Ramirez isn’t holding you hostage. Come down, get something to drink and eat, and meet everyone.”

He climbed down wordless, and Mike handed him a soda and led him around to each group and introduced him to all of the volunteers and clients. They greeted him warmly, remarking on their gratitude for his work on the barn roof before Mike would take him to the next group. This continued until Mike was dragged away by Suzanne to tend the grill, leaving him alone. He didn’t mind, it was nice to watch. It was what he was good at. It made him good at recon, made him a good agent.

Most all of Ramirez’s clients and volunteers were former military or connected to the military in some way, but otherwise, it seemed they came from different walks of life. They all talked and chatted amicably, oblivious to his watchful eye. Bridget was talking about her day at the office with Mike, while Stephanie talked about her students, eighth graders, with Ramirez. Molly was sitting at the picnic bench with several other children coloring in pages from a horse coloring book. Mitchel was hovering by some of the other volunteers who were playing horseshoes. All around him people were eating, talking, laughing, and generally enjoying one another’s company. These people were all different, different but for the virtue of knowing Ramirez.

He paused at the sensation of being watched and turned to see Davidson watching him from a distance. “Matt.” Davidson nodded.

“Sir.” He nodded in return.

“Not a sir, son," Davidson replied as he walked up to stand beside him.

He nodded, taking a sip of his soda.

Their gaze was drawn at the sound of laughter, at the center of it was Ramirez, wearing a reserved smile. “She’s the lifeblood of this place," Davidson said following his gaze. “The barn roof has needed to be replaced for a while now. We appreciate you taking it upon yourself to replace it.” Davidson faltered. “I appreciate it.” He amended. Every word felt forced as if the older man was battling himself for control, but what he was saying was genuine, meant it, even if he didn’t want to.

  What was he supposed to say to this man? He looked away and down. “It’s the least I could do.” He managed after a moment, taking another sip.

“The best thing you could do for her is leave," Davidson said shortly.

He didn’t flinch, didn’t even look over at him. Davidson knew what he was, knew that he was dangerous. He’d even told Ramirez as much. Yet here they were. “That’s the plan.” He said finally.

“Good.” Davidson slapped him on the back. “Good talk, Matt” He walked away without another word.

He exhaled slowly, stomach twisting. Before he could begin to dissect what had just transpired, Ramirez’s voice drew his attention.

“Hey everyone!” Ramirez rose, standing on the center picnic table. “I have a couple quick announcements to make before we cut cake and start the fire pit. She glanced around as someone turned off the radio before continuing. “I want first to say thank you so much for coming this evening. It’s always wonderful to see everyone. First and foremost, I want to wish everyone who had a birthday this month a happy birthday! And of course many many more.” She glanced around, taking a deep breath. “Of course, tonight is also about memory. Remembering those who are no longer with us. For those of you who are interested and can attend, Tim’s wake will be tomorrow. Bill is coordinating rides for all those who need or want them. I hope to see some of you there.” She swallowed hard, looking down a moment. She blinked taking a deep breath. She moved her mouth silently as if she was rehearsing what she was going to say. “ Thank you for your patience with me this past week, and all appointments and schedules will resume Tuesday. Thank you again for all coming. I hope you’re enjoying yourself! Now cake!” Ramirez climbed down from the bench and activity resumed, although a bit subdued than before.

The cake was cut and passed around, tables were cleaned off and stowed against the side of the barn, and the fire pit was lit just as the sun started to go down. A guitar was produced and passed around the circle of people gathered, a few people songs strummed out and sung badly before Ramirez was beckoned and sat at the center of the group. The ease of familiarity sunk in and around the group as they all found places to sit down as if this was the most natural thing in the world. He hovered near the back, leaning against the barn wall, had a good vantage point.

 Ramirez took to tuning the guitar before she glanced up and around at the assembled group. “All right Bill.” She smiled, eyes settling on the man. “You’re the most senior of our birthdays this month, you get first request.”

“The birthday song.”

“The birthday song?” She echoed, picking out the tune to ‘happy birthday to you.’

"No. You know the one I’m talking about.”

Ramirez stopped, the lines of her face grave as she surveyed him. “Why that one Bill?” A note of dread in her voice.

"Because it was Tim and Alice’s favorite.”

For the second time that evening, a heavy weight settled on the group. After a moment Ramirez nodded. “Okay. Okay okay.” She sighed. Clearing her throat, she began to strum, and then she began to sing.

“Estas son las mañanitas, que cantaba el Rey David, Hoy por ser día de tu santo, te las cantamos a ti…”

It was a sad, sweet sounding song even though the lyrics were a celebration of the person’s saint’s day. Eyes closed Ramirez sang, her voice rich and true, piercing the silence of the early night, her hands moving deftly over the frets. It was beautiful, and as he looked at all the volunteers found tears welling in their eyes. They were all grieving the life of their friend and colleague, but at the same time, they were basking in Ramirez’s light, which seemed to glow all around her in the firelight. He watched their expressions as they watched her. _They loved her_. He realized. This was more than admiration. _They Love her, all of them do._ Did she know? Did she know how much they all cared for her? Did they know how much she cared about them? He didn’t know.

The song concluded, and there was a round of subdued clapping and less subdued sniffling.

Ramirez wiped her eyes before glancing around at the group. “So what’s next? Mitchell. What about you?” She asked the gangly young man seated to her right.

He shrugged, eyes on the ground, but Ramirez leaned in toward him, and he mumbled softly. “Ooh. I like that one. But I don’t think that I can get that low.” Ramirez looked around, her eyes were bright, devious almost. “Mike. Johnny’s I walk the line?”

“Aww hell. That’s a bit much even for me.”

“Come on Mike.”

“Fine. Fine.” He cleared his throat.

“I’ll count us off then.” She smiled. “Two...three...four.”

She played, and Mike sang, and most everyone joined in. When they concluded she clapped Mike on the shoulder. “All right. Since you were a good sport. You get to pick the next one.”

“Marty Robbins, El Paso," Mike said.

Ramirez laughed, “You’re trying to get on my good side aren’t you” She cleared her throat. “Bill. I think you and I can do this one. You know this one don’t you?”

Davidson started protesting but was interrupted by the group, and he held his hands up in surrender. “All right. All right. Goddamn. Okay.” He cleared his throat. “At your ready Feelena.”

“Ha. Ha. Ha.” Ramirez rolled her eyes but started picking out the tune.

“Out in the West Texas town of El Paso, I fell in love with a Mexican girl…” Davidson sang, the slightest tinge of pink rising on Ramirez’s cheeks, she smiled but continued playing. “Nighttime would find me in Rosa’s Cantina, music would play, and Fellena would whirl.”

The song ended to a round of cheers and clapping. Davidson extended his hand to the Ramirez, and she looked him up and down skeptically. “Yes?”

“My turn.” He said firmly.

She handed over the guitar and Davidson played a song before another member around the campfire asked for the guitar. They all sang along or clapped to the beat, every one of them beaming by the end of it.

 “Now before we wrap up for the evening," Davidson announced. “I have one more that I’d like to play just for Ramirez.”

She opened and closed her mouth, “Bill.” She said, warning in her tone.

 “Just stay put right there, Ramirez," Davidson instructed firmly as he started to tune the instrument for the song he wanted to play.

“Bill?” She repeated.

He flashed a wicked smile, clearing his throat before he began. “There's a yellow rose of Texas, That I am going to see, No other fellow knows her, No other, only me, She cried so when I left her, It like to broke my heart, And if I ever find her, We never more will part.”

Ramirez went a bright shade of red, throwing her hands over her face as the rest of the group joined in singing and clapping along to the beat. The song ended, and Suzanne emerged with a bouquet of a two dozen yellow roses, tied with a black ribbon around the stems. Tears started streaming down her face, as she took the bouquet in her arms, and was immersed in a hug by the three nearest people who kissed her on the cheek.

People started lining up to hug her, and wish her goodnight. Until one by one, they departed, and it was just Davidson, Mike, and Suzanne remaining. “Well, that’s another one for the books. Good job kiddo.” Davidson said as he came up to give her a hug.

 “Thanks, Bill.” She said returning the hug. “I’ll see you guys tomorrow right?”

“That was the plan” Bill replied, releasing her from his embrace.

"You guys have a good night!” Mike waved as Davidson started toward the truck.

“I’ll talk to you Monday about arrangements," Suzanne said cryptically as she pat Ramirez on the shoulder. “Night Matt.” She nodded toward him before she also moved toward her truck.

“Y'all have a good night.” Ramirez waved as they pulled down the drive, watching as their tail light disappeared down the drive. “Now that wasn’t so bad.” She commented sinking back down, the bouquet of yellow roses laying on the bench beside her, some of the blooms looked droopy and had begun to wilt in the warm of the evening air, the guitar sitting beside it.

“What do you mean?” He replied, moving from the barn doorway toward the fire pit.

“You don’t seem to take well to crowds.”

So she had noticed his discomfort. Well of course she had.

“It’s understandable. They can be a bit overwhelming.” She commented, picking up the guitar, started plucking at the strings. “Did you enjoy yourself?”

It was a strange question. Enjoyment didn’t factor into his daily experience, thus far. So he wasn’t quite sure what to say. “It was interesting to watch.” he managed finally.

Ramirez chuckled, nodding in agreement. “It certainly is that I’d imagine.”

He glanced around, the ranch was quiet, the horses long bedded down. Ghost was out in the enclosure near the trough and under the overhang asleep. The stars were out and shining bright, and this woman was sitting here with him, playing the guitar as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

Davidson’s words echoed a thousand times in his head. _The best thing you can do for her is leave._ The man wasn’t wrong. He had lingered too long, and he was putting these people, putting her at risk.

He should say something. _Wanted_ to say something. What would he say to her? _I’m leaving tomorrow? Thank you?_ Nothing seemed to cover what he wanted to express. His gaze was drawn upward as she started singing to herself. “Sometimes I wonder why I spend the lonely nights dreaming of a song.” It was soft and sweet, and tender, and he watched as she sang.

He frowned. _I know that song._ He’d heard it before. Somewhere. He could hear the crackling of the radio, a soft and tender moment, he was holding someone’s hands. “Stardust?” He managed, his voice rough compared to her’s.

She nodded, her fingers picking at the strings, hands working the frets. “My grandfather was always partial to Willie Nelson’s version, which is part of the reason why I learned it. My husband always liked Bing Crosby’s version.” Ramirez said.

Frank Sinatra and Tommy Dorsey, that was the version he’d listened to. He glanced back up at Ramirez who had returned to humming the melody as she played. “How long have you been playing?”

“Oh. I guess on and off for about twenty years now.” She commented, finishing the song, put the guitar back up on the picnic bench beside the roses.

“You play very well.” He said.

“Thanks.” She smiled. Glancing around she sighed, rubbing her face. “I should probably head up for the evening.”

“Do you want help moving the tables and chairs back in?”

“No. No, they can keep for tonight.” She shook her head, looking down into the embers of the dying fire. “Thank you for your help today, and for your help with the roof in general. I do appreciate it. Tremendously,” She said.

He nodded. _Say something. Tell her something. Tell her thank you. Tell her you’re leaving._ His brain screamed.

  “Have a good night Matt. I’ll see you in the morning.” She rose, collecting the guitar and the bouquet of roses.

 “You too Ramirez.” He replied. He waited until she’d gone into the house, and he could see her turn on the lights in each room she entered before he moved into the barn.

He lay back in the stall, his mind rushing and racing. Tomorrow he’d finish the roof, and he’d be gone. He couldn’t endanger her any more than he already had. He’d lingered long enough. It was time for him to keep moving. He squeezed his eyes shut, and fell asleep humming Stardust.     

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Getting to the end here! I’m super excited about these last few chapters! I hope you enjoyed! Please comment, leave kudos, or subscribe! (Seriously, I love comments!)


	10. Walking the Razor's Edge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note: Marvel owns what it owns, and I own what I own, let's keep it that way shall we? Don’t Sue me! 
> 
> Content Warning For Racial Slur
> 
> Recommended Listening: Who Are You, Really by Mikky Ekko, Zombie by The Cranberries

He was awake and working on the roof by the time Ramirez came into the barn for the morning feed. She addressed him briefly as she fed the horses, leaving them in their stalls for the day. “I’ll be back this afternoon.” She concluded before walking back up to the house without another word.

She was on her way to Tim’s wake. What struck him was that she fully expected him to be there when she returned. An assumption. What would she do when she arrived home and found him gone? Would she wonder? Would she figure out who he was? Would she simply move on with her life without a second thought after he was gone?

 _Why are you thinking about this? You’ve gone soft._ A vicious voice in the back of his head snarled. _You won’t survive if you keep thinking like_ that. _Attachment is weakness or did Hydra teach you nothing?_ But he knew that the voice was wrong. Attachment wasn’t weakness. It wasn’t his weakness. It was their weakness. It was a weakness in there hold on him on their ability to control and manipulate him. _Then why aren’t you staying? Why not reach out to Rogers?_ They were back to this line of reasoning.

There was a difference, he decided, between not wanting to people to get hurt and being willing to turn yourself over to the custody of someone you maybe, possibly, might have known. He didn’t want to hurt these people, and so he was going to do what he knew would prevent that from occurring, which was leaving.

He finished up the roof around mid-afternoon and returned the tools, ladder, and extra supplies to the tool shed. Then he returned to the barn and swept the floor of all of the sawdust and wood chips that had fallen into the interior of the barn while he worked. He was stalling he realized. Trying to find something else to do, something else to fill the time before the inevitable happened. _You have to leave. You have to go before Hydra finds you._ Stowing the broom, he turned to the issue of packing. He folded everything down tight, slipping the pen and notebook Ramirez had given him into the front pocket.  

He froze at the sound of a vehicle pulling up the drive. It wasn’t Ramirez’s truck or Suzanne’s. The vehicle stopped, and the doors opened as people stepped out. He strained to listen, focusing in on the voices which were all indistinct and unfamiliar. Then he heard it, heard him.

“The wetback bitch shouldn’t be back for some time. Let’s get going boys and torch the place.”

 _Roberts._ What the hell was he doing? _You need to get out of here. You could slip away unnoticed. No one would be the wiser._ He glanced up and around at the barn. The smell and sound and heat of massive bodies occupying the space overwhelmed his senses. _They’ll burn the barn down with the horses in it._ Guilt twisted in his stomach. _You’re an idiot._

He stood and walked to the barn entryway and found four men in addition to Roberts, hauling electrical equipment from the back of the truck.

“Can I help you with something?” He asked shortly.

They all froze and looked up. Setting down their various tools and equipment, all of the men rounded the truck lining up behind Roberts. “Well, well. Matt isn’t it?”

“Can I help you with something?” He repeated again, his voice sharper. Watching as the four other men started spreading out, closing distance between them and him.

“This isn’t any of your concern.” Roberts sneered.

“I rather think it is.”

“Oh! Really? And what are you going to do about it, _Matt_?”

“I’m asking you to leave before I have to hurt you.” He answered flatly. He didn’t want to fight them. He’d rather hoped his presence would be enough to chase them off, but that obviously wasn’t the case this time. He’d have to make good on his threat.

"Well, now isn’t that a novel idea.” Roberts chuckled, in a way he was sure the man thought was sinister.

Two of the four men approached one with a baton, the other with fists raised. Then something in his brain flipped, and all of a sudden he wasn’t in control anymore. He ducked and weaved, avoiding the baton and knocking the man wielding it to the ground, the second, and then the third and fourth came at him as well. He took them down quickly, faltering only when one of them managed to jab their taser into his left arm. Snatching the taser, he tossed it away, before sending the aggressor to the ground. All of this in one fluid, continuous movement, unbroken, and without thought. He stopped only as he realized he had someone by the throat.

He looked up and found Roberts writhing and struggling in his grasp. _It would be easy. Dispatch him, before he can tell anyone your location. End him now before he compromises you._ The thought startled him. He knew he was capable of it, but the ease of which the instincts had overtaken his control. He dropped the man. Stepping back, just in time for Roberts to pull a knife and stab him in the right shoulder.

He looked up making eye contact with the men and took several purposeful steps toward them. That was all it took. Scrabbling back into the truck, the men sped back down the drive toward the main road tires kicking up rocks.

His gaze followed the vehicle, his jaw clenched, a buzzing sensation emanating from prosthesis grew and quickly spreading through his spine and into the rest of his body. Sharp shooting pain accompanied the buzzing, and as he tried to flex the metal hand found it inert. It had been on it’s way out, and now it looked like the taser had issued the final blow. When the Roberts disappeared from view, he looked down at the knife protruding from his shoulder. _Assess damage. Administer necessary repairs. Keep moving._ His training screamed. _Assess Damage, administer repairs, keep on moving._

Grabbing the soldering kit from the tool shed, he charged to the outbuilding. Slamming the door behind him, yanked the first aid kit from the wall, and sat down on the long bench. Fumbling with the closing mechanism on the first aid kit he opened it to find a suture kit, iodine, and enough gauze to be able to keep from bleeding out. Opening the suture kit, he removed the scissors and started cutting away his shirt from the bottom up, his hand clumsy, ignoring the shooting pain, the left hand and arm hung limply in his lap. _It had been too easy. He could’ve killed those men, and it wouldn’t have taken any effort at all._ His mind raced as he tried to focus on what he was doing.

His attention was drawn to the sound of footsteps, and he rose staggering to his feet as the door swung open. He body tensed, preparing itself to fend off further attack. “Matt?” Ramirez stammered standing in the open doorway. Her expression cycled through confusion, shock, horror, and disbelief in rapid succession as she surveyed him.

 _She’s a threat, neutralize the threat. She’s a threat, neutralize the threat now!_ His mind screamed. He wanted to leave, he wanted to escape. The air was choked with the smell of blood, and mildew and it caught in his chest. He wanted to push past her, wanted to escape before she could call someone. Before she got him caught. Before she compromised him. Before he could hurt her in an act of self-preservation.

Then, in the piercing silence came Ramirez’s cell phone. They flinched, his gaze flickering between her and her bag where the ringing was coming from. She met his gaze uncertainly, her hand frozen mid-motion, reaching for the pocket.

 _Who could it be? Would she raise the alarm? Would it be worse if she didn’t answer? Would Roberts send someone out here?_ His mind spun. “Answer it.” He ordered.

Ramirez nodded and removed it from her bag. Clearing her throat, she answered. “Last Chance Ranch, Maggie speaking!”Her voice chipper and bright, with no hint of what she saw before her. She paused, glancing at him as the person on the other end of the line started speaking. “Yes Officer, this is she. What can I do for you today?” She asked pleasantly.

 _Fuck._ It was the police. Roberts and his men must’ve called them after their little altercation. _You have to leave, you have to go now. You can’t let them take you._ It would be easy to push past her; she was distracted. She was so much smaller than him, even wounded, it wouldn’t take much for him to pacify her.

Her voice pulled him back. “Huh.” She continued, her facial expressions shifting as her tone did. “That’s strange, I just got home from a wake, and everything here is fine. I don’t know what vagrant Roberts is talking about. You’re more than welcome to come out and take a look, but everything out here is quiet.” Her whole body’s language was mirroring her tone. A masterful performance, but a performance none the less.

 _She was lying to a cop._ She was lying to a cop for him. He could hardly believe it. _Why?_ He didn’t know.

“No. No. I appreciate the call. It’s good to know that Roberts was out here trespassing. No. I don’t want to press charges… Thank you... Yes, thank you. I’ll be sure to let you know if I see anything strange. Yes Sir. Thank you. Bye Bye.” She hung up and turned the phone off, slipping it back into her bag.

There were several beats of silence as they both surveyed one another. She looked perfectly at ease. Nothing about her tone, posture, or expression gave him any indication that she was alarmed or otherwise put off by what she was seeing. “You’re hurt.” She said.

“You lied to him.” He replied.

“Am I assume that if he had come by for a wellness check, you would’ve gone quietly?” She asked sarcasm dripping from her words.

 _Well, she wasn’t wrong._ He didn’t say anything. His eyes still darting, trying to plot his escape, calculating his chances of making it past her, and how far he’d be able to get. The numbers weren’t great.

As if sensing this, she took a step into the outbuilding, stepping out of the doorway and leaving a clear path for him to take, if he wanted to. Her dark eyes worked, running an evaluation of her own. “I take it Roberts didn’t come by to offer his condolences.”

“Not exactly.” He said.

“Party favor?” She motioned to the knife in his shoulder.

"Something like that.”

“Thank you for not killing any of them, that would’ve been difficult to explain," Ramirez said appreciatively. Pausing she took a deep breath as if summoning the will to do whatever would come next. “You’re hurt. Let me help you.”

“Why?” He snapped, voice shaking. He took a step back, back nearly against the wall of the bathroom stall, hand wrapped around the scissors.

“Well.” She began slowly. “I don’t think either of us has much choice. Proper medical attention isn’t an option for you, but I can’t in good conscience let a man who’s done nothing but good since he arrived here walk out of here with a knife sticking from his shoulder.”

_You have to leave. You have to go. You’re wasting time, and she’s stalling. She’s going to get you captured._

"It’s the arm," Ramirez continued when he didn't respond. He looked up meeting her direct and open gaze. “Isn’t it?” Something is wrong with it. That’s why you’re not already out of here. If it were fully operational, you wouldn’t have waited around, stab wound or not.”

 _She knew. She had to know._ Her calm demeanor, her no-nonsense. It all seemed fake now. It was difficult to surprise anyone who knowingly let the Winter Soldier sleep in their barn. How long had she known? Had she called Wilson and Rogers? That was her game. Stall him long enough for Rogers and Wilson to arrive. Is that why she had lied to the cop?

“How long?”

“Suspected? About two days. Known for certain? Just about now.” She answered honestly. “But I think you know who I am, that I know Sam Wilson, the Falcon. I haven’t called him. Frankly, when he asked if I’d see anything weird, I thought he was stupid for even suggesting that you’d stop somewhere like here. But here we are.”

Wilson was looking for him up here. That meant Hydra couldn’t be too far behind either. He was losing time. He had to leave, he had to get out, but there was no way that he’d be able to treat his own wounds on the run. He couldn’t even administer necessary repairs right now with the relative supplies, which left him with few options.

“Look," Ramirez said slowly. “Let me help you. Talk me through the repairs I’m a fair hand with a soldering iron and I have some more advanced first aid training. I can get you patched up so you can get out of here.”

She wasn’t wrong. He knew she wasn’t wrong. He didn’t have a choice, but then again neither did she. She’d already lied to the police, Wilson was looking for her, and Hydra was on his tail. If he didn’t leave soon both their lives would get exceedingly more complicated than they already were. What did he have to lose by letting her help him? They’d come this far, they’d go a little bit further before it was all over.

“Okay.” He nodded.

“Okay.” Ramirez agreed. “I’m going to wash my hands and put on gloves, so I don’t come into contact with your bodily fluids. Can you sit down on the bench, please.” She instructed firmly.

He complied wordlessly, watching as she closed the outbuilding door, and crossed the room to sink. She set about her task, setting down her bag, and pulling off her blazer. Rolling up her sleeves she went to the sink scrubbing down her hands and forearms in water so hot it raised steam and turned her hands a pinkish color. Her expression was flat as she moved, pulling on gloves and grabbing and arranging the proper supplies. She paused only momentarily to stand in front of him, her eyes giving him a once over, before she extended her hand to him, open palmed. “Scissors please.”

He handed them over cautiously, placing them in her palm. “Okay.” She said lightly. “I’m going to cut away your shirt and jacket. Fortunately for you, I have replacements that should fit.” She commented. “Is that okay?” Ramirez paused, waiting for his response.

He nodded, and only then did she approach.

"I’m going to start with the bottom and work my way up. cutting all of this into four pieces, to begin with, and then trimming around the stab wound.” She explained. “Is that okay?” She asked again.

Again he nodded, and she set to work. Ramirez worked quickly, humming to herself as she cut, her motions sure and steady. She showed no sign of fear or uncertainty, as if she had done this for a living, and had no problem performing next to light surgery on someone like _him._ _And what is that exactly?_ His brain sneered. _A murder? A terrorist? A threat?_

“How we doing?” She asked as she finished the first cut up the front and around the stab wound.

“Fine.”

"Good. I’m going to move behind you so I can cut down the back.” She explained. “Would you like to turn and face the mirror so you can see what I’m doing?”

This question made him pause. She had been narrating and telling him what she was doing. That made sense. That was practical and tactically made sense. This question. This question was about his _comfort_. She was right though, he didn’t want her behind him with a sharp implement. The very thought made his heart pound and his skin itch. And she’d thought to ask. _She’s doing you a favor, and she’s still thinking about your comfort._ It was almost too much to believe.

“I’ll turn.” He said shortly, swallowing hard. She took a step back, allowing him to position himself, waiting for him to nod before she resumed work.

“Your hair is hanging down on your collar. May I brush it away so I can avoid giving you a really bad haircut?” She asked lightly.

“Yes.” He braced, nearly flinching as her gloved fingers made contact with his skin. One hand holding his hair out of the way while the other manipulated to scissors, diligently cutting away his clothes.

“Okay and we’re done with the back seam. How we doing?” She announced, letting go of his hair.

“Fine.” He glanced up at her as she moved around front.

“I’m going to cut away your right sleeve and then your left. Is that okay?”

Again, she was asking for his consent. Was it because she was afraid of him? That if she didn’t, he might hurt her? No. That didn’t seem to be it. Which, again, meant she was thinking about his comfort. He nodded, and she started cutting his sleeve, working from the cuff up toward the collar. She resumed humming as she worked, and he watched her. She should be terrified. _She should be afraid of me, of what I might do._ He remembered Hydra, before his last wipe, administering repairs, armed to the teeth, weapons trained on him, ready to put him down should he make a false move. Yet here she was, still dressed for a funeral, humming as she worked.

“You’re taking all of this exceedingly well,” He commented dryly.

"Well.” Ramirez sighed, pausing, she scratched her forehead with her wrist. “I’m burying my friend tomorrow, my ranch is weeks from foreclosure, and Jack Roberts is up to his usual fuckery. This may as well just happen.” She said, her drawl thick.

There it was. The resignation. The desperation. The inevitability of the whole situation, summed up in a simple, concise phrase: this may as well happen.

She clipped the last bit of fabric of the sleeve and gently pulled away the right side of his jacket and shirt. She rounded the bench and stood in front of him and paused as her eyes settled on the metal hand of the prosthesis.

Her expression bore no immediate reaction, and her face remained smooth and unaffected. _What was she thinking? Certainly, she was having some kind of response to seeing it, to seeing that kind of tech._

“How much mobility do you have with your prosthesis presently?” She asked, looking up and addressing him directly. He must have given her a puzzled look because she continued. “If it’s dead weight, I need your permission to touch manipulate the prosthesis.” She explained.

His stomach twisted, and he could feel them, hear them, the so-called doctors and handles with cold, rough hands, ready with a tranquilizer if he resisted.

“Hey.” her voice called gently, and he blinked, looking back up at her. “Hey," Ramirez repeated, she’d taken a step back, her hands in clear view, her voice soft. “I don’t want to hurt you. Let me know what you need me to do.”

He exhaled a shaking breath. “It’s unresponsive. I can’t move it.” He said shortly.

“Would you like me to try to pull the sleeve off rather than cutting it away? I won’t have to touch your prosthesis that way if it makes you uncomfortable to have other people touching or moving it.” She explained tentatively.

He shook his head. His skin itched, his whole body throbbing, even as white-hot sparks of pain shot through his spine and throughout the rest of his body. “You’re going to have to cut it.” He paused, looking into her concerned features. She was concerned, for him? “This may as well happen.” He added dryly. It was the best he could do to cut some of the tension in the room. Even as he fought himself second to second to keep from pushing her away and making his escape. He wanted to claw at the metal seam, claw, and scratch and tear at the flesh as if that would somehow ease the burning sensation, and make the buzzing in his spine stop.

 “Okay.” She nodded. “ I’m going to sit down. That way I can support and move the prosthesis a little bit easier. Is that okay?”

He nodded and moved over, allowing her space to straddle the bench, her body facing him. “Let me know if I need to stop for any reason.” She said. Supporting the prosthesis with one hand, she cut up the sleeve with the other.

Ramirez worked diligently, and he watched her, as she pulled the fabric away from the metal prosthesis, which glinted in the flickering fluorescent lights, gauging her reaction. “They really didn’t do you any favors with this, did they?” She commented, her expression grave as she cut around the curve of the elbow.

He didn't comment and instead evaluated her expression critically. Was it anger that he saw in her eyes? And anger at whom? Hydra? On his behalf? Why?

“I’m sorry you got caught up in all of this.” She continued after a moment. “This whole thing with Roberts.”

He didn’t know what to say. Did she hear herself speaking? She knew he was the winter soldier, probably knew he was Hydra or former Hydra, and she was apologizing to him? Did she know what he’d done? No. She had no clue. She couldn’t know.

She cut the shoulder seam, and the rest of his shirt and jacket fell away, leaving him naked from the waist up. Gently setting the prosthesis back down she returned the scissors to their place, and rose, standing squarely in front of him. She did a quick physical inventory, her dark eyes working fast as she tried to evaluate her next move.

 "Repairs to the prosthesis take priority.” He bit out shortly. He needed the arm functional. He needed it to work so he could escape. He needed it to survive. Everything else was secondary.

“But-” She cut herself off when she saw his expression. “Okay.” She raised her hands in surrender. “Okay. I’m going to plug in the soldering iron. You’re going to have to talk me through what I’m doing. I’m a fair hand at soldering, but your prosthesis is a little more advanced than anything I’ve worked on.”

He turned his head away and down, blinking, his heart pounding even louder and faster in his ears. He could feel the dread settling in his stomach. The sensation of cold, sterile hands on him was near, he could practically feel them on him. The pain swelled making his head spin, and he squeezed his eyes shut, his breath hitching in his chest. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block it out. _Sargent Barnes._ The slimy, slippery voice of Zola whispered in his ears.

“Hey," Ramirez called. "Hey, I need you to stay with me. You're wounded and hurting. I know this is scary. But I'm going to help you. I'm going to make it stop hurting. But you have to stay with me. " She started talking through a breathing exercise, just like she had a few days before, her voice rooting in him in reality even as his brain tried to tell him otherwise. Eventually, he opened his eyes, and the outbuilding came swimming back into focus. “Hey,” She said gently. “What’s your name? What do you want me to call you? If we’re going to get through this together, I need your name.” He frowned looking up into her concerned features. “Come on. We both know Matt isn’t your _real_ name.” She ribbed gently with a soft smile.

 _How did she know? What did she know?_ _How had she guessed Matt was a fake name?_ Panic set in, before somehow better sense stepped in. It didn’t matter. She already knew what he was, a name was just a name. _S_ _he’s helping you, she’s done nothing but help you. You owe her this at the very least._ “James.” He said slowly. Even saying the name felt strange, but it was the only name he could give her that was anything close to the truth of it.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, James,” She said, “I wish it were under better circumstances.”

 _James._ She’d called him James. It was familiar, somehow, almost comforting. He blinked slowly, trying to focus on what was going to get him out of here. “Scalpel. You’ll use it to pry open the panels on the side of the arm.” He instructed.

“Okay. Okay, that sounds good. Do you know which one or just all of them?” She asked, grabbing the first aid kit, she removed the scalpel from its sterile packaging before sitting down beside him and the prosthesis again.

“No.” He shook his head, jaw clenched, body tense, as if the tension was the only thing keeping him upright.

“All right. So it’ll be a process of elimination here I take it.” Ramirez commented, sticking the scalpel into the panel’s edge. “Let me know if I'm hurting you, James.” She said popping open the first panel.

“Anything?”

“Everything seems to be intact on this one. Would you like me to close it up or keep it open until we find the problem child?”

“Open.”

“Okay.” She nodded and continued. “I’m not hurting you with this, am I?” She asked as she worked, popping open three more panels.

“No.” He shook his head.

“Okay. Well, let me know if I do something that hurts you, James.” She said, “I don’t want to hurt you. And if it is hurting you, we can stop and figure out what to do to make it hurt less.”

He didn’t know what to do or say. It hurt, everything hurt, but she wasn’t hurting him. And yet he wanted to push her away, tell her to get her hands off him, to leave him alone. He glanced down at his right shoulder, blood seeping slowly from the wound, an overwhelming urge to remove the knife from his shoulder. It was two maybe three inches deep. It hadn’t hit anything major. Even if it had, he’d walked off worse. He’d survived Hydra and would survive this.

“Absolutely not. One thing at a time.” She said shortly.

He glanced up at her. She hadn’t even looked up. “It’s a natural instinct, and it’s probably the worst thing you can do for yourself right now.” Ramirez paused as she popped open another panel. “Okay. I think we found our problem. Let’s take a look at what we got here.” She leaned in toward the arm to get a closer look, and he stiffened even more than he thought already possible but stopped short of outright flinching. She moved away again at looked up into his face. “Okay. Talk me through what’s going on,” She prompted.

“I.” He faltered. He didn’t know to say. It was hard to explain, particularly because he never had in the past. Hydra hadn’t asked. “I-I don’t know.” He stammered. _Just fix it. Just fix it._ He wanted to scream. His control over the pain wavered moment to moment and he might just lose it completely.

“That’s okay.” She said gently. “I’m going to repair what I can see is damaged, and if that doesn’t help or resolve what’s going on, we can problem solve to work through the rest of it.” She rose, and grabbed the soldering iron and coil, and returned to the bench. “Let me know if I’m hurting you, James, or when it seems to be working.”

She worked quickly. Her hands were steady, and as she completed each repair, she spoke to him in low tones, like she was soothing a spooked horse. Mostly whispering that he was doing well, asking if she was hurting him, asking him how he was feeling if the arm was getting any better, and it was, bit by bit. It buzzed like a limb that had fallen asleep, but the pain had subsided substantially. She finished the one panel and had moved onto to discover another two panels with similar damage.

“How are we doing, James?” She asked finishing up the last panel. She blew on it gently, raising goose bumps on his rib cage.

 He exhaled a shaky breath. “I’m fully operational.” He managed.

She hesitated, opening her mouth to say something. She must’ve thought better of it because she closed her mouth, closed and secured all the panels, and turned off the soldering iron. “Done.” She said and moved away. He turned his attention to the arm and hand, flexing the hand experimentally. It wasn’t perfect, but it would work. Ramirez was watching him, and he looked up to meet her gaze.

"Better?” She asked uncertainly.

“Yes.” He glanced at the knife still sticking out of his shoulder.

“Yes, now we can take it out.” She said, tearing open a pack of gauze pads.

Without hesitating, he reached up with the prosthesis and yanked the knife out. “Not!” She started before she pushed the gauze against the wound as it blossomed with blood. “Like that.” She glowered applying even pressure on his shoulder with both hands.

“He didn’t hit anything major and it wasn’t very deep,” He replied.

“Hand me another pack of gauze.” She ordered shortly.

He nodded, fishing another package of gauze out of the first aid kit, ripped open the package with his teeth, and extended it to her. She took it, adding it on top of the first pack. “You’ve done this before.”

 “EMT training,” She answered shortly pushing down even harder.

He flinched, the only momentary lapse in his control over his pain.

“Sorry.” She apologized. “More gauze.”

They did this until the bleeding stymied. “Sew me up, your hands are steadier than mine at the moment.” He ordered.

“Okay. Put pressure on it while I get the suture kit out and ready.” She instructed.

He moved to put the left hand on the gauze pad, catching her watching him and it curiously. “That’s a mean piece of tech. It doesn't seem very well suited for wearer comfort.” She commented, opening the bottle of iodine.

He braced, waiting for the comments and questions to come. She probably had a million things she wanted to know. They didn’t come. Instead, she peeled back the layers of gauze and poured some of the iodine over the wound. He exhaled through clenched teeth.

 “Sorry. It’s probably a little cold.” She apologized, sealing the bottle, and sopping up the extra. She removed the suture kit from the first aid box and started setting up. “And while I know you won’t, let me know if I’m hurting you, and if I need to stop, James.” She said and set to work, right hand firmly grasping the forceps the left manipulating the thread, scissors, and tweezers.

She was all business, working efficiently, her stitches tidy and neat. Her hands were steady and didn’t falter. “Breathe, James," Ramirez commented softly, and he glanced down to find both hands balled into fists. His whole body was tense beneath her touch. “We’re almost done.”

“I’m fine.” He snapped.

“You’re doing great.” She replied pleasantly, ignoring his snipe.

 He watched her in the mirror. Her whole being was focused on her task. She had been nothing but kind to him. She had fed, clothed, and protected him. Now she was providing medical aid and emergency repairs on his prosthesis. Hydra, no doubt, was on his tail now. They would follow him to the ends of the earth, and he’d lead them right to her. He inhaled sharply before he spoke. “You need to call your friend. You’re in danger.”

“Hydra’s coming after you. Aren’t they?” She said slowly.

"Yes.” He replied.

“Sam said you defected.”

“They’re not going to just let me go.”

“I gathered.” Ramirez tied off another knot. Her hands paused in their motion. “I don’t know Captain America, but I know Sam Wilson. He’s a good man, he’ll help you, if you let him.”

She was trying to get him to stay. Trying to convince him not to keep running. “They can’t help me, and neither can you. You should be more concerned about yourself.” He said sharply.

“I appreciate your concern.” She replied, tying off the last knot “But whatever you’re running from, you’re not going to be able to run forever.”

He didn’t say anything in response. She wasn’t wrong. He couldn’t run forever, but he would run for as long as he could. He wasn’t going to just roll over and let Hydra take him.

Ramirez ran an iodine wipe over the surface of the wound before applying a layer of gauze and tape. “And I’d say take it easy, but I get the feeling that’s out of the question.” Standing up she turned back to face him squarely. “How’d we do?”

He nodded in response. Rising to his feet, he glanced around. “You mentioned clothes.”

“There are some long sleeve shirts in the bottom drawer, and a jacket hanging on the back of the door. It’s fairly versatile.” She explained as she started cleaning up the bench.

He said nothing, removing items from the various drawers and dressed. Then he took the coat from the back of the door and paused, standing in the threshold, looked up at her.

 “One more thing," Ramirez said, pulling off her gloves and throwing them in the trash, she picked up her satchel removing a roll of bills from a front pocket. Crossing the distance between them, She extended the roll toward him. “It’s not much. But wherever you’re going, you’ll need some cash. It should get you out of town.”

She was right. He knew she was right, he did need the cash, but she had just admitted she was weeks away from foreclosure. He couldn’t take the money from her. Not after all that she'd done for him, and all that was about to happen to her before this was all over. “You should call your friend. You don’t have much time.” He said shortly.

 “I’d be more worried about yourself.” She replied.

 He paused. He wanted to say something. Wanted to say thank you. Wanted to say good luck or be safe, or something. But he couldn’t. What could he possibly say that would be sufficient in the circumstances? Instead, he nodded and turned away toward the barn. He had to get moving. He was losing light fast, and he had a lot of ground to cover.

 _You’re making a mistake. You can’t leave her alone against Hydra._ His brain screamed. But he ignored it. He couldn’t risk it. He couldn’t risk capture by Hydra. He’d told her to call Wilson. Wilson and Steve Rogers could protect her, he had to get as far away from this place as possible as quickly as possible. He had to leave, leave before Hydra could get their hands on him. That was the best thing he could do for her. That was the _only_ thing he could do for her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed! Please remember to subscribe, comment or leave kudos (Please feed the plot bunnies)!
> 
> As a fun aside! I first finished a draft of this chapter (or bits of this chapter) All the way back in late November early December of 2016 (yanno in the wake of CA:CW). While a lot has changed about this fic, this was always one of the most central and pivotal scenes (since I started this bad boy way back in 2014). Next up! Maggie dealing with the fall out from all this stuff


	11. Up In Smoke

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note: Marvel owns what it owns, and I own what I own, let's keep it that way shall we? Don’t Sue me!
> 
> Content Warning: Torture, Swearing, and a single racial slur
> 
> Recommended Listening: Comfortably Numb by Pink Floyd, Fall Into Me by Alev Lenz, O Death by Jen Titus, and Hide and Seek by Imogen Heap

Maggie wanted to throw up, or rather throw up again. She hadn’t watched him go. It was better for plausible deniability that she didn’t. _Guy? What guy? No. I have no idea where he went. He was gone when I came back from the wake I was hosting for my friend._

In truth, she’d wanted to throw up in peace. The tension, and anxiety and if she was honest with herself, the outright fear and anger that had been welling in her chest had turned and twisted in her stomach. So as if trying to flush out a poison, her body had decided that the best course of action would be to throw up.

She’d thrown up and cried, and then had walked out into the late afternoon.

By the time she’d made it back to the barn Matt...James...The Winter Soldier...whoever was gone. Stall ten was empty, and there was no trace that it had even occupied for nearly two weeks. _You should have known. You should’ve known who he was._ Her mind raced and spun as she thought back over her interactions with the man. She should’ve seen the signs, should’ve known there was something different, something _wrong_ with her interactions with him. But she came up blank. There was nothing in their interactions, nothing about what he’d said or done that could’ve clued her in to his _actual_ identity. He behaved like a lot of her clients and volunteers, a former soldier with PTSD and chronic pain issues, tossed in with substance abuse. She knew a lot of people like that. _How was I to know that he was the Winter Soldier, a goddamn cyborg who worked for Hydra?_ That thought gave her pause. The prosthesis. That prosthesis hadn’t been made for wearer comfort or mobility. That had been made for power and strength, with little thought of the user in mind. She’d seen the scars, more like claw marks on his shoulder. _Had he tried to dig it out? Had he fought against them?_ What did any of it mean?

_You should call your friend._ That’s what he said. Hydra was coming for him, and it likely meant they would go through her to do it.

Maggie needed to call Sam. She needed to tell him what she knew what had transpired. She needed to tell him that yes, the Winter Soldier had been camping out in her barn for damn near two weeks and she’d just found out. _That_ was going to be a fun conversation.

She sighed, heading toward the tack and feed room. She knew all of this, knew that time was of the essence, and that whatever Hydra was going to bring, it was not going to be pretty. She knew of this, so why was she stalling?

Maggie pulled her phone out and dialed in Sam’s number. Holding it to her ear, she held her breath as she listened to it ringing.

 “Come on...come on...answer...” She muttered.

_You’ve reached the voice mailbox of Sam Wilson. Can’t come to the phone right now, leave a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. Thanks!_

_"_ Typical.” She muttered before the beep. “Hey! It’s me. Uhhh. I think I’m in a bit of a situation. I think you need to come up to the ranch for a visit. Soon. Real Soon. I’m fine, everything’s fine. I just...yeah....call me back so I can explain. Talk to you soon, love you bye!” She hung up, swearing under her breath.

“Call any time Mags, I’m always happy to talk to you Mags, You know I’ll drop everything for you Mags.” She muttered in mocking tone under her breath. “Yeah. Yeah, bullshit.” She rolled her eyes.

_This isn’t just any situation Mags. Those people are going to hurt you if they get a hold of you. You have to call Sam again. You have to get ahold of him and warn him what’s going on._ “Okay Okay. I’ll call him again after I’ve finished with evening feed.” She set her phone down, picking up the feed bucket.

“Alrighty, ladies and gents who’s hungry?”

Maggie turned on the radio and worked quickly, humming to herself. She couldn’t get the look of terror in his eyes out of her head. The raw and absolute fear etched on his expression when she’d opened the door. The way he flinched or nearly jerked away when she touched him. _He wasn’t working for them, he was their prisoner._ It was the only explanation for his behavior and for the prosthesis.

She was pulled from her thoughts as a car drove up the driveway to the front of the house. _No one pulls in that way._ She set the feed bucket on the picnic bench and started up the hill.

“Can I help you with something?” She asked approaching the man and woman dressed in tidy black suits who were emerging from the nondescript black sedan.

 “Are you Mrs. Underdhal?” The man asked, his dark hair was slicked back his eyes obscured by dark sunglasses.

Positioning herself between the duo and the house, Maggie glanced them over. There was nothing that outright _screamed_ danger about them, but something was decidedly _off,_ and for her, that was enough _._ Where they Hydra? She’d expected more guns and explosions out of the Nazi organization. _Okay, so what are you going to do?_ She cleared her throat, smiling. “I am. What can I do for you folks?”

“Mrs. Underdhal, We’re with the department of homeland security.” The woman explained as they both removed and flashed badges, stowing them back away before she could get a good look. “We need to ask you a few questions.”

“Can I ask what this is in relation to?”

“There have been sightings of a dangerous fugitive in the area, we’ve been told you may be able to assist us in our investigation.” The woman explained, her blond hair bobbing slightly as she spoke.

“Of course.” Maggie nodded in a way she hoped appeared cooperative and helpful. “I’m more than happy to assist you in any way that I can. Unfortunately, I’m headed out for the funeral rosary service this evening for a friend of mine. Can you leave me with your contact information? I’d happily make an appointment to talk with you at your office sometime later tonight or tomorrow.”

“Mrs. Underdhal, I don’t think you understand the urgency of the situation.” The man said shortly.

“I am sorry, under any other circumstance I’d be more than happy to help you right now, but I’m leading the rosary, and I’ve been friend with Tim’s wife Alice for ten years, I introduce them you know, and she’s just in such shock right now. I really can’t miss it. I’m so sorry.” She rushed. “If you give me your phone number, I’ll call you as soon as I’m done and we can talk after.” It was a dangerous gambit, and she held her breath as the duo glanced at one another. The woman nodded, and the man reached into his pocket, producing a business card.

 “When exactly will you be done?” The man asked.

“Service begins at seven, so should be done right around eight. I really do have to go.” She said quickly, taking the card. “I’ll call you then. Thank you so much for understanding.”

“Of course. We look forward to speaking with you very soon.”

Maggie nodded, retreating to the porch and going to the front door. She glanced over her shoulder at them, where they were both watching her, motionless. _They didn’t buy that for a goddamn moment. C_ losing the door and locking it, she reached for her phone.

_It’s down in the barn you moron. Fuck!_ Her eyes darted to the gun case where the shotgun was stored, fully loaded and ready to be fired.

She started toward it her mind bent around the thought. She made it two steps before the door behind her was knocked from its hinges, and she was knocked to the floor, slamming her head against the hardwood floors. No time for quips or brave last stands, she lost consciousness, only vaguely aware of the rough hands that grabbed her.

Maggie awoke moments later to the unfortunate sound of ransacking. She moaned. Blinking she found she was zip-tied to the kitchen table by her ankles, elbows, and wrists.

 “She’s awake Jones.” The woman said as Maggie stirred.

There was the further sound of crashing, before the man, now identified as Jones entered the kitchen. “Glad you could join us, Mrs. Underdhal.” He commented. “Do you mind if I sit?”

“No. By all means, make yourself at home.” She drawled, wincing at the pain throbbing at her hairline.

"Thank you for so generously taking time out of your busy schedule to talk with us, Mrs. Underdhal.” Jones sat down across from her, while the unidentified woman walked behind her rifling through the kitchen drawers. “Or may I call you Magdalene?”

“I’d prefer if Ms. Ramirez if it’s all the same to you two,  _lovely_ people.” She answered.

“Of course. Ms. Ramirez.” Jones nodded, producing a folder from his briefcase. “We’re sorry that we’re forced to talk in such circumstances, but I’m afraid you’ve been mixed up in something much bigger than you realize, and as I mentioned before, time is of the essence.” Jones glanced behind her. “Williams, have you made your selections.”

 “I have.” She answered. Coming up behind her, Williams set a number of kitchen implements on the table: a marble rolling pin, a meat tenderizer, a rubber mallet, and several knives ranging from a paring knife to a clever.

  “Oh, this is a pick your own torture device adventure, that’s cost effective. I’d imagine Hydra’s had some budget cutbacks recently,” Maggie drawled.

“Very clever, Ms. Ramirez,” Jones smirked.

 Maggie’s skin crawled. She wanted to punch the smarmy little smile off his face out, her hands were clenched into fists, her fingernails creating small crescent-shaped indentations in her palms. _Where the fuck is Sam? God. Did he get her voice mail? Had he been trying to call her back?_ Her mind raced, even as she tried to stay focused and in the moment.

“Now. We have it on good authority that you were harboring this man.” Jones said, opening the file folder pushed a glossy photograph across the table for her to look at.

It was a photo of James. He was wearing a military uniform, an American military uniform. Maggie surveyed it closely. The photograph, that photograph, she’d seen it before. “I’m sorry. But no. I haven’t seen that man before in my life,” She said, glancing up at Jones who was watching her like a hawk.

“Oh, Ms. Ramirez, you’re going to have to do better than that.” He pushed another photo across the table toward her. It was a grainy photo of her and Bill, with the back of James’s head just in view.

When had this been taken? How long had Hydra had tabs on the place? Her head spun. She blinked, a few times. All she could see was James, in the outbuilding, the fear radiating off him as she’d been working on him, and the pain he’d been in. The absolute horror that had been driving him to run. James was afraid of these people, of Hydra, and she should be too. What was she going to do? What could she do? If she didn’t help these people, she was dead. If she helped these people, she was still going to be dead. This was a lose-lose scenario, for everyone involved. _Stall. Stall as long as you can. Sam’s coming for you._ It was a long shot, but what was her alternative?

“Sorry.” Maggie began slowly, trying to bend her voice into the sweetest southern accent she’d never had as a native Texan. “That hit to the head must’ve done a number on me. But you’re talking about Matt?” She asked, glancing between Jones and the photograph. “That’s Matt. Two tour combat veteran in Afghanistan. He’s been volunteering for me for close to six months.” She met the man’s gaze squarely. She wasn’t sure if he was buying the dumb farm girl routine or not, but she was going to milk that angle for all it was worth.

“Try again, Ms. Ramirez.” He put down another photograph, this time with James’s face in the frame.

“I just told you that’s Matt.” She repeated adamantly.

“Of course, of course, it is,” Jones answered sweetly. “And with you, that’s Bill, correct? And this is Mike, and Mitchell, and Jonny and Bridge and James, and of course, I couldn’t forget Suzanne.” He pushed several other photographs of various volunteers and clients, each with the James just barely in the frame. “A number of them with prior’s or pending legal matters. A few with children and families.” A look of horror must have crossed her face because he smiled. “Yes, I thought that might rattle your memory a little bit. Of course, I’ve saved the best for last.” He placed a photo, a recent photo, of Sam on top. “You thought we wouldn’t know that your husband was involved with a known associate of Captain America?” He paused for dramatic effect. “It would be a shame if we had to get anyone else involved because you were unwilling to cooperate.”

She focused down on the photographs, her jaw gritted. _I’m going to die._ It wasn’t so much a thought as a feeling deep in her gut. _I’m going to die, but others don’t have to._ He’d just said as much. They might not spare her, but if she cooperated and gave them the information they were looking for they wouldn’t hurt anyone else. _And you’re going to trust the Nazi motherfucker who has you tied to a chair?_ No. She didn’t believe him, but she had to do something didn’t she? She had to at least try to do something. If she was going to die, shouldn’t she go out being brave? Shouldn’t she go out trying to protect those she cared about? What did she owe The Winter Soldier? Fair was fair, she’d patched him up, and he’d run off Roberts. She didn’t owe that man anything. _Goddamnit, why hadn’t Sam picked up his phone?_

“What do you owe this man? Your life? The life of your clients and friends? Do not throw everything you’ve built here away for him. Is he really worth it?” He continued.

Maggie focused down on the photo of Sam. He hadn’t aged at all since the last time she’d seen him. He still had that kind expression that he always used when he was talking to people he cared about, the expression he’d used when talking to Riley, to her too. God. Why hadn’t she called him as soon as James had left? Why had she given him a head start? Would they kill Sam? The Winter Soldier hadn’t been able to kill him or Captain America. They had a good chance of surviving whatever Hydra threw at them, right? Was that a chance she could take? Even then. If Sam had a good chance of survival, what about the rest of them? Bill, Mike, Suzanne and the rest? James had Molly and Steph to worry about.

Maggie took a deep breath, looking up at Jones. “I help you, you leave them alone.” Her voice shook. “Right?”

“That depends on how helpful you are.”

_Right._ That was the answer she needed. “I don’t know anything worth your time.” She said flatly.

“Oh. Come come, that’s not true. You’ve just spent time with one of the world’s most deadly operatives. I’m sure you have plenty to share,” Jones smirked. “Where was he headed when he left your property this afternoon?

“I don’t know," Maggie answered.

Jones said nothing but nodded to Williams who rounded the table and stood behind her chair.

“Let’s try again.” He continued after a moment. “Where is he going?”

“I told you assholes, I don’t know.” She snapped.

Jones nodded again to Williams who picked up the rolling pin and weighed is speculatively in her hands. It had been a wedding gift from Riley’s Great-Aunt Millie. The racist bitch had called Maggie a beaner at the wedding when Good Ol’ Aunt Mille had thought Maggie couldn’t hear. Still, the rolling pin was expensive, and heavy duty, and unfortunately was now going to be used for something more than tortillas and pie crusts.

“I’m afraid that’s not the answer we’re looking for.” He said. “And time really is of the essence. So if you’re not going to cooperate, we’re going to have to hurt you until you start giving us the answers we want.”

 “Then start asking me questions I know the answers to.” She shot back.

“Give us something we can work with then.”

Maggie rolled her eyes. This was going nowhere slowly, yet they were the ones that kept saying that this was all time sensitive. She looked back down and focused on the photo of Sam, and then back up at Jones who was watching her carefully across the table. They’d been watching her. They knew her routine, her patterns, who was coming in and out of the Ranch. Had they been watching her since Sam had shown up on the news helping Captain America? Had Hydra herded James to her ranch and then proceeded to watch him while he recovered from whatever the hell he was tripping on? It was all too convenient that the day Roberts and his guys come out to burn the place to the ground Hydra goons roll up and decided that she needed to be tied down and interrogated. She was being used but wasn’t entirely sure _how,_ and that led to so many other questions that she didn’t have the time to think about.

“You are aware, studies have shown that torture is ineffective right? Like that’s a thing you should be aware of.” She said shortly. “So when I tell you that I have nothing of value to offer you, you really should just take me at my word. This is about as truthful as you’re going to get for the rest of the evening.”

It was the bravest thing she could think of to say. Was she being smart? No, probably not. Was she making the right decision? Again, no, probably not. But then again, the opportunity to make different choices to avoid this entire situation had already passed. Now she had to deal with the consequences of her actions.

She could still see James’s expression, his bright pricing blue eyes riddled with pain and fear and anger and terror. He’d killed people, he’d murdered people for Hydra. He’d very nearly killed Captain America, it had been all over the news. But when he’d been in her barn, he’d merely been a sick, frightened man. He hadn’t lifted a finger to hurt her and had done more than his fair share to help her. He wasn’t the one who had her tied to a chair, prepared to torture and in all likelihood kill her. There was no guarantee that if she cooperated that they would stop with her. She just had to rely upon Sam to make sure her people were safe. Now her only job was to stall long enough to raise the alarm.

“Oh, I’m well aware.” He motioned to Williams who brought the rolling pin down on her left hand with a resounding ‘smack.’

Maggie gasped, the impact sucking her breath away. “I don’t know where he’s gone.” She said through gritted teeth.

Jones nodded, and Williams brought the rolling pin down again, a little harder. Maggie screamed.

“I. Don’t. Know.” She bit out, her eyes watering.

“Get creative Ms. Ramirez. Context clues if you will.”

“You mother fuckers think this is an English class? Like context clues are really going to-” She screamed as Williams brought the rolling pin down again. This was restraint. Maggie knew that this was restraint, and she also knew intuitively that their restraint wasn’t going to last much longer. “He took a jacket.” She managed after a moment.

 Jones and Williams exchanged glances at one another. “See?" Jones said, voice dripping with condescension. “You are useful.”

"I mean he also took some swim trunks and flip flops. Though how that arm fares in water, I couldn’t say.” Maggie bit out sarcastically.

Willams dragged the chair back away from the table and stepped between her and Jones. “You think this is funny?” She asked, punching Maggie first in the face and then several times in the stomach.

 Maggie dry heaved, gasping for air, coughing and choking on saliva and blood.

“All right, Williams. That’s enough.” Jones waved her off.

“Appreciate the chivalry.” Maggie drawled.

“Well. You can’t very well answer our questions if your head isn’t in the right place.”

"Actually, I think you should hit me a couple more time, It helps me think better.” It was the only thing she could do to think through the pounding in her skull and the pain shooting from her stomach and chest and arm. She’d taken worse beatings in bar fights before, only then she’d been drunk. Now she was gravely and unfortunately sober, and these assholes wouldn’t even give her a bottle to smack them with.       

Williams responded in kind, with several more blows around the face and to the chest and stomach. “Enough!” Jones called after a moment. Then switching into Russian, dictated quick instructions to Williams.

The woman nodded and departed from the Kitchen. Only after she’d gone, Jones rose and walked around the table to where Maggie was tied. He picked up the rolling pin that Williams had left and again weighed it in his hands. There was still flour dust on it from the last time she’d made tortillas. The kitchen table that wasn’t covered in photos from Jones’s file was littered with party supplies and extra boxes of tinfoil and Saran Wrap.

“Now. While your friend and Captain America might have dismantled SHEILD, I still have to report to my superior officers.”

“Then why the fuck are you wasting your time with me?” She asked.

 “You have more strategic value than you realize.” He answered, before bringing down the rolling pin on top of her left hand.

 “Fuck you, Fuck Hydra.” She snarled, tears streaming down her face, her breath hitching in her chest as she tried to suck down air.

“You really think that we needed information from you?” Jones asked.

"Sure does seem that-” He brought the rolling pin down again before she could finish what she was saying.

This time she just screamed. The pain was white hot and blinding, and Maggie felt light headed. She couldn’t feel her fingers and most of her hand and wrist through the pain, never a good sign. She blinked at Jones, her vision blurry, and she could tell by the look on his that he was enjoying this. Then is it struck her. She was never a strategic intelligence target. She was _bait._ Who she was supposed to lure, and who they were looking to trap, but she, Magdalene Ramirez was going to suffer, and probably die in a pointless attempt to either capture the Winter Soldier or kill Sam and Captain America.

 In the end, she was just going to be collateral damage, and all of this was going to be all for nothing. _What else is new?_ She hadn’t done anything that had mattered. She couldn’t save the Ranch, she couldn’t help the people she was supposed to be supporting and helping, she couldn’t save her relationship with Sam, hell she couldn’t even save herself.

 “Ahh. See now you’re starting to get it.” Jones smiled.

“He’s not going to let you take him, and Sam Wilson and Captain America are going to make sure you pay for this.” Maggie managed weakly. It was the best she could come up. “In the end, you’re just going to lose.”

“We’ll see.” He said, bringing the rolling pin down on her wrist, just below the joint.

Maggie screamed, the pain overwhelming. Then, there was the smell of smoke that started to fill the air and choked her lungs. Her vision blurred, tunneling as she tried to focus on the smug grin of the man who loomed over her.

_This is it. This is how it’s going to end._ She realized. She wasn’t sure how she should feel. Relief? Anger? Resignation? _I did everything that I could. There isn’t anything else I could’ve done._ It was a pallid reassurance.

_Mags. Mags you have to come down, you’re going to fall._

She jerked her head up, glancing around the now empty kitchen which was rapidly filling with smoke. “Riley?” She gasped out.

_I’m here Mags. I’m here, but you have to stay with me._

“I want to stay with you.”

_I’m not going anywhere. You’re going to be okay. It’s okay. None of this is your fault. It’s okay._

Maggie smiled, a wave of euphoria or relief washed over her. As if a weight was being lifted off her shoulders. She was done, it was over, and there was nothing she could do about it. She exhaled slowly and welcomed the darkness as unconsciousness took her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all enjoyed this chapter! I know it was a rough one! Next time we get a little bit of resolution! (Is it too early to start plugging Part II of the series?)
> 
> Let me know what you think!


	12. Epilogue: The Pain of Choices Made

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note: Marvel owns what it owns, and I own what I own, let's keep it that way shall we? Don’t Sue me!
> 
> This had been a wild ride! I hope you enjoy the last chapter of "On A Last Chance" The conclusion to the first part of the "Find Your Way Home" series. The first chapter of part II: "What it Means to Disappear" will be up sometime in the next week! Thanks for reading and happy reading to all!
> 
> Recommended Listening: "Bridge over Troubled Water" by Simon & Garfunkel, "September" by Earth Wind and Fire, and "Get Lucky" by Daft Punk

James had tried to keep his mind off it. He’d managed to make it to Montreal overnight and was now in the process of securing passage overseas. Yet still his mind wandered back, and wondered, had Wilson and Rogers made it in time? Had Ramirez called them at all? Had Hydra overlooked or ignored Ramirez all together? He needed to find out.

He pulled his jacket closer as he entered the library and headed for an unoccupied computer. Pulling off his right glove logged on and opened a web browser. _Do I want to do this?_ He wondered as he typed in Last Chance Ranch, Magdalen Ramirez into the search bar. He paused, the mouse hovered over ‘search.’ _What would it change if I knew? It’s too late to do anything._

He knew he needed to find out. That he needed to know. That he needed closure on this one thing. He clicked search and held his breath waiting for the page to load.    

And then he had his answer. “Local Veteran Community Mourns loss of Equine Therapy Ranch Owner to House Fire.”

He clicked on the link, reading through the news report. _The local veteran community is mourning today after a house fire claimed the life of thirty-year-old Magdalene Ramirez-Underdahl, the founder and owner of Last Chance Ranch...Firefighters responded to reports of a fire on the property at 8:00pm Saturday night...Underdahl was the only one home at the time of the fire...clients and volunteers in shock and looking for answers...Authorities believe the cause of the fire was electrical and classified as non-criminal..._

 _They killed her?_ No. It couldn’t be. It was a lie. It had to be. There was no other explanation. _I told her to call Wilson. Wilson should have been able to protect her. She’s not dead, she can’t be._ It was a lie, a fabrication, a ruse either by Hydra or by Wilson and Rogers.

He clicked on the video in the article and watched as Davidson, Suzanne, and Mike were interviewed. The pain in their voices was palpable, their eyes red and puffy. All of them saying in their various ways, _we don’t understand._

He paused the video looking at Davidson’s face, the pure anguish, and anger, and despair in the man’s features.

It was true. Or at the very least it was true to Davidson, Suzanne, and Mike, and it would be true to the volunteers and clients of Last Chance Ranch. Magdalene Ramirez was dead, and it was his fault.

 _The best thing you could do for her is leave._ That’s what the old man had said. That’s what he’d done.

He exited the news site and went a few hits down to the Ranch’s website. The home page was simply her photo, her date of birth and date of death below. Below the photo all that was stated was “Date and time of memorial service TBD, check back for updates."

He closed out of the webpage and logged off, starring at the blank screen as his brain processed what he'd just seen. She was dead, and she was dead because of him.

_Better her than me._

The thought bit out before he could retract it. He winced, and he glanced down at his right shoulder, where she had patched him up. _She helped you, and you left her for dead._

Regardless of what had happened, of who had pulled the trigger, there was one absolute truth, her blood, Magdalen Ramirez’s blood was on his hands. _I didn’t have a choice._ But he had, he knew he had. She’d given him a choice, an option. He could’ve stayed, he could’ve turned himself over to Rogers and Wilson.

 _Or Hydra could’ve gotten hold of you, and then where would you be?_ Could he have reasonably staked one life over the life of all of those Hydra would’ve forced him to take?

_But it isn’t just one life, is it?_

All those people at the cookout, all the people that he'd seen come in and out of the barn, in and out of the ranch, they were connected through Ramirez. What would they do now that she was gone? Where would they go? Would they find another place to receive treatment? What would happen to the ranch? She’d just admitted they were weeks away from foreclosure. Did that mean that Roberts would get her land?

 _You don_ _’t get to ask those questions, you let her die._

He reached down to his bag and opened the front zipper. Removing the journal and the pen Ramirez had given him, cracked open the front cover, flipped a few pages, and slowly wrote out her name. Magdalene Ramirez, 11/11/1984-04/28/2014, cause of death: Fire.

He paused, something in his stomach twisting as Ramirez’s words to James that day in the barn came back to him. What was it that she had said? No one wakes up good or bad, but it’s their choices that define them? It was the choices, she said, that defined the person. That every choice, every action mattered?

_Our past doesn’t define us, but our choices now and today help shape our tomorrow._

He shook his head, and closed the journal with a snap, stowing it away. He didn’t have time for this. No time to think about what had happened, or what it meant. Hydra was still after him, still on his tail. Her death would mean nothing if Hydra caught him. That was his rationale, and nothing else mattered. There wasn’t a choice, there was only survival, no matter the cost.

In the end, it didn't matter if James Barnes was a good or a bad person, and it would matter even less if Hydra caught him.

He rose, walking from the library and out into the overcast Montreal afternoon. 

_***_

 

Magdalene Ramirez was dead. Dead on arrival, according to the paperwork, with smoke inhalation listed as the cause of death on the death certificate. Which was why an “Ana Sanchez” sat in one of the rooms of the county hospital with guards outside, eating orange jello, left arm in traction, right eye swollen shut proofreading the eulogy Sam Wilson was going to read at Magdalene’s memorial service.

Maggie hummed along to “September” as it played over the Bluetooth speaker, trying to focus on anything but the reality that was crushing in around her. She was legally dead, her business, home, and most of her earthly possessions were gone, burned to the ground. Yet somehow that was the least of her worries. She had at least another surgery and a whole bunch of PT to look forward to, _and_ she had to find a new place to live and a job with her new ‘identity.’ Oh, and Hydra Science Nazis were looking for her so she could give them a lead on where the Winter Soldier had gone.

Maggie paused at the sensation of someone standing just out of her field of vision. “Come in Captain.” She commented dryly looking up from the page she was reading to the man hovering in the doorway.

“Is Sam here?”

 “No.” She said flatly.

“Oh.” He glanced around, a frown creasing his expression. “He asked me to bring him coffee.”

“That was me,” Maggie replied returning her gaze to the page she’d been reading. “He’s out getting me food since I refuse to subsist on the sodium-free, sugar-free, and flavor-free garbage they've been feeding me here, particularly if I’m editing my own eulogy.” She commented. Setting down the pen she picked up the orange jello cup and slurped down one of the large chunks.

“Did...did you need something, Ms. Ramirez?” He stammered.

Maggie looked up at him, surveying him carefully. He didn’t _look_ like Captain America. Well, he did in the way that all tall beefy men with broad shoulders, skinny waists, and blonde hair looked like Captain America. The man standing in front of her wasn’t Captain America. There was no bravado, no confidence, in fact, he looked like he wanted to disappear in a hole in the floor, or through the window, both of which Maggie was quite confident he could accommodate. “Coffee.” She cracked a small smile. “And a bit of your time.”

“Of course” He nodded, approaching the bed hesitantly, handed her the coffee and returned to standing at the foot of the bed.

 He watched her as she took a small sip. It was Dunkin’ coffee, so it was bitter and slightly burnt, but it would do the job in a pinch.

 “You really should sit down Steve,” She paused. “Or do you prefer that I call you Captain?” She inquired.

“Steve is fine.” He answered.

“Cool. Cool. Sit down take a load off.” She said taking another sip of coffee. “And thank you for the caffeine. My head is killing me."

Easing down into one of the stiff, uncomfortable hospital visitors chairs, he surveyed her closely. He was trying to figure her out, trying to figure out what kind of person she was. “How are you-” 

“Don’t.” She interrupted shortly.

"Sorry.” He replied almost bashfully as he took a sip of his coffee.

“It’s... it’s fine.” Maggie exhaled slowly, “I mean do you want a real answer or do you want me to lie to make you feel better?” She asked. It wasn’t a nice thing to say. The Winter Soldier had put Him in the hospital too, but he hadn’t had his life quite literally burned to the ground. So fair was fair.

He didn’t say anything. _Shit._ Maggie chewed the inside of her mouth. “I’m sorry. You’re not exactly catching me at my best.”

“Understandably So.”

“It’s unfortunate. I don’t normally meet people under the best of circumstances.”

“Sam tells me you’re a therapist.”

“I was. yes.”

"Right.”

Poor bastard. She couldn’t help but almost feel sorry for the guy. Almost. “I promise I didn’t lure you here just so you could bring me coffee. I did want to talk to you without Sam around.” She paused, choosing her words carefully. “I’m sorry that we’re meeting under these circumstances, Captain. My husband was a huge fan of yours.” She paused, watching as the star-spangled man with a plan retreated further inside himself, shoulders hunching as if he hoped he’d be able to fold himself up and disappear entirely. “But that’s not why I wanted to talk with you.” Maggie took a deep breath. “Who is he? The Winter Soldier?”

Steve lowered his gaze and looked away as if trying to summon the will, summon the energy to be able to form the words.

“I’m not asking because I’m angry. But before I say what I’m going to say next. I _need_ to know the truth. The Winter Soldier isn’t just an operative. He’s your friend, James Barnes, isn’t he?”

Steve snapped his head up, looking at her with wide eyes, hope, fear, terror, and surprise crossing his face all at once “How’d you-”

"I’m not a complete idiot. And I’ve been putting the pieces together since I woke up. He told me his name was James, Hydra showed me an old black and white photo, you’re here and hovering, and Sam was and has been particularly evasive about the entire thing since this whole thing started.” She explained slowly. “Plus you have a shit poker face,” Maggie added.

Steve exhaled slowly, nodding, “Fair.”

“I want to help you find him.”

The statement caught Steve off guard, and he opened and closed his mouth a few times as he tried to come up with something to say. “Ms. Ramirez I can-”

 “I’m not asking permission. I’m telling you I want to help you find him.”

"Why?”          

Maggie hesitated. What was she supposed to say? If she was honest, she was being selfish. Tracking down the Winter Soldier was one step in trying to get her life back. She’d been declared dead because she was a security threat. If Hydra thought she was still alive, they’d keep coming after her. If the Winter Soldier was found it might ease some of that. It wasn’t a guarantee that she’d get her life back, but it would be a start. She couldn’t tell Captain America that, it wasn’t nearly noble enough for the likes of him. “I want answers, and I want closure,” Maggie answered finally. “And I want all of this,” She glanced meaningfully at her arm. “To have meant something.”

“I couldn’t-”

She raised an eyebrow and he faltered into silence. “Steve. You’re not asking anything of me. I’m volunteering. I’ve got nothing but time. And let's be perfectly real, I’m doing you a favor. I’m one of the few non-hostile parties who’s spent any time with him.” Maggie paused. “You need me, Rogers.”

Steve nodded thoughtfully. “Is this why you wanted to talk with me while Sam was out?”

“Possibly.” She took another sip of coffee.

“He’s not going to like this.”

“Is that supposed to be a deterrent?” Maggie snorted. “He’s not the boss of me. He’s never been the boss of me. Besides, I have plenty of shit I could hold over his head that _I_ don’t like that he’s involved with. You for instance.”

Steve looked taken aback. “Me?”

"He was out, learning to live his life after losing his wingman, his partner, a man whom we both loved dearly. Then somehow you drag him back into that shit? He must have a pretty damn good reason. So do I.”

“In my defense, he volunteered,” Steve said slowly.

“Oh, I have no doubt. You don’t seem like the kind of guy to impress people into service. Maybe a light guilt trip every now and again but nothing too harsh.” She answered setting down her coffee reached over and opened the drawer of the side table. “And so am I. Volunteering I mean.” She removed a legal pad she’d been working through and extended it to him.

“What is it?” He asked uncertainly as he took it.

“I’ve had trouble sleeping.” She said as if that explained the nearly twenty pages of meticulously written notes. “I...uhh...took the liberty of working up a preliminary psychological evaluation of Barnes based on my observations while it was still fresh.” Maggie paused, watching as he flipped through the pad, his eyes scanning the pages with intense focus.

“So...” She began after a moment. “When do I start?”

“I think you already have, Ms. Ramirez,” Steve said looking up at her.

“Maggie.” She extended her hand to him.

 “Steve.” He said taking it.

“A pleasure.” She smiled shaking hands with him.

“Ummm.” They both glanced over at the doorway to see Sam standing there, looking back and forth between them, McDonald's bag in hand. “Do I wanna know?”

“No.” She answered, dropping Steve's hand. “Did you get my food?”

“Just the way you like it.” He set the bag down in her lap, kissing the top of her head.

“Thanks, Sammie. You’re the best.” She said before rifling through the contents of the paper sack.

Sam watched her carefully, glancing between her and Steve who was looking down at her notes as if trying to work an equation out in his head. Then something crossed his expression. Was it sadness? Anger? Frustration? Concern? Or was it resignation? Maggie didn’t know, but she knew that Sam knew she was going to help them track down the Winter Soldier. Perhaps more importantly, Sam knew that he had absolutely no say in it whatsoever.

To be fair, she hadn’t had a say in it either. A half-dead man stumbling onto her property, what was she supposed to do? Call the cops? And anyway, being a Good Samaritan didn’t mean you invited Nazis to come and knock down your door, torture you, and set your house ablaze.

Well, it didn’t matter now. It was gone. It was all gone. Her ranch was gone. Her house. Her barn. Her life and the life that she had planned with Riley and Sam in all of its various forms and trappings, all of it was gone, and there was nothing she could do about it.

So she was going to get it back, or what little of her life was left that she could get back. And so at the moment, that meant she had to track down James Barnes. No matter the cost, no matter the consequences, he was the first step to going home, and so she would help Sam and Steve track him to the ends of the earth and beyond if that’s what it took. After all, she was _technically_ dead. What more did she possibly have to lose?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has been such a fun journey. I first started this part of the fic back in 2014 shortly after Captain America: Winter Soldier first came out, and it has grown into something much much more than I ever could've hoped! Thank you so much for coming on this part of the journey with me! 
> 
> BUT!
> 
> Don't worry, Maggie and the gang will be back very very soon in Part II of the "Find Your Way Home" Series which is titled "What it Means to Disappear" it will be up in the next week or so (promise I have the first chapter cooking as we speak)
> 
> As always! I hope you enjoyed! Please leave your comments, kudos, and subscriptions! 
> 
> Thanks again! And As always Happy Reading!
> 
> A/N: As an aside (because i’ve Had two people back to back ask)! I promise the horses are okay! Mags in chapter one talks briefly about what happens to them (spoiler: they’re re-homed with the exception of Shadow and Ghost who are staying with Suzanne).
> 
> A/N ALSO! I commissioned ART For this fic! By Yawpkatsi! Go take a look, enjoy! And Follow her stuff, she’s excellent!
> 
> https://yawpkatsi.tumblr.com/post/186257647607/commission-for-the-lovely-theonlyredcar-parody

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed the first chapter. Please remember to comment, subscribe, or give kudos! Feedback is welcome and appreciated!


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